Rules of Enchantment
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: The A-Team has gone up against plenty of mobsters, crooked businessmen, and maniacal monks. Now, they find themselves...in the middle of a fairy tale? Slightly AU, for all you readers who love TAT *and* swashbuckling fantasy. As You Wish!
1. Once Upon a Pomegranate

**Rules of Enchantment**

**by Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2010**

**Rating: PG for mild innuendo and violence**

**Disclaimer: TAT belongs to SJC and Universal. Many references are made to classic and modern classic fantasy tales from **_**The Chronicles of Narnia**_and _**The Wizard of Oz, Coraline, Enchanted, **_and _**Alice in Wonderland, **_**all of which are the properties of their respective creators. I don't make a penny from this and I do it for fun.**

_Chapter 1: Once Upon a Pomegranate_

The candles had burned down to nubs. Their remaining light cast a warm, ruddy glow across the cold stone walls of Eyder Keep. At the massive desk in the center of the circular room, the old woman's head drooped low over the pages of a heavy leatherbound volume. To an outsider entering the room, it might have appeared that she was deep in concentration. But the snore that issued from between her lips would have quickly dispelled that notion.

She snapped awake just before a drop of her own saliva had been about to fall onto the precious hand-lettered pages. Annoyed, she snapped the book shut and then dabbed at her face with a fold of her cloak. _I'm getting old, aren't I? _she thought.

Dawn would not come, according to the hourglass, for another two hours at least. She'd always preferred the quiet comforts of the evening, and the books weren't going anywhere. She took a sip of her herbal tea, which had gone cold by now, and blinked her eyes.

After all these years, she still hadn't quite adjusted to her life at Eyder. Its comforts were many: soft beds, any sort of food she'd ever want, a roaring fire stoked by servants throughout the night. Yet there was always the thought at the back of her mind, borne from many years outside the castle walls, that any knock at the door or peripheral movement might have been that of a wild animal from Grimthorne, or worse, a Jackal. Not all the bloodthirsty creatures in this world walked on four legs.

These days Grimthorne was faily civil, mostly, and the Jackals had been gone almost as long as she'd made the Keep her home. Just the memory of them was enough to make her shudder.

But Queens did not shudder. Should not.

It was Sixthnight tonight, her night. The only part of the week when she could tell the courtiers and ambassadors and squabbling chicken farmers that their business could surely wait until Seventhmorning. Queenship had its many responsibilities. That part, at least, was easy enough to handle. She'd always been the responsible type, trying to solve others' problems and organize the troops. The people adored her, the Royal Host admired her, even crusty old Ambassador Kyll had come to respect her. She was popular and well-liked, and reigned in a time of lasting peace.

She still needed her time alone.

The place she'd left off in the book…ah, yes, it was a good one. It told the story of the Third Moordeb War, and how the unlikely hero-monk Brother Juur had outsmarted a fierce manticore…

"Gran?"

She didn't need to look to know the voice. Fergall, her favorite grandson. He shuffled sleepily into the library, a candle in one hand and his favorite stuffed griffin in the other.

"Can't sleep, Gran," complained Fergall, yawning. "Fyr is snoring AGAIN and Tupo keeps teasing me about my 'stuffie,' says I'm too big for him…"

"They are your cousins, love," she said, trying not to smile. "I'm sure they didn't mean to hurt your feelings…"

"I wish I was big and strong. Then I'd teach 'em to respect me."

The Queen did smile. There was so much of herself she could see in Fergall. The defiant jut of his chin, the way his brown eyes flashed when he was being stubborn, the knobbiness of his seven-year-old knees and elbows. She sighed and marked her place in the book. There was a story the boy needed to hear, now that he was old enough.

"Is that so? Do you want me to tell you a story about brave men who were big and strong, but most of all, clever and wise?"

Fergall yawned. "As long as it's not one of those boring ones about bards or monks." He tucked the stuffed griffin under one arm and climbed into his grandmother's lap.

"Did you know that our kingdom wasn't always free? And I wasn't always Queen?" she began. She was a natural storyteller, able to captivate with words. From Fergall's surprised expression, she guessed he hadn't heard this story before.

"But you were _always _Queen, Gran…"

"Not always. Did you know I once needed the help of not one, not two, but _four _brave knights from a faraway land to save the kingdom from an evil princess?"

She had hooked him instantly with the mention of the knights. Fergall turned to face her, his eyes no longer sleepy. "Knights? Like Sir Varam?"

"Even _better _than him, lad. Now…once upon a pomegranate…"

"A _what?"_

"Let me explain, lad…"

Grey.

Everything was a shade of it, from the sky to the rock quarries and even what little vegetation still grew. The mood of the people, more importantly. Hope had migrated from the kingdom long ago and left behind only despair.

The young woman who trotted down the path wore a dress that might have once been rich brown, but was now a mottled patchwork mess. She thought it just as well. If the Jackals ever found out what she'd been up to for the past year or so, she would be an easy target for their arrows and would die relatively quickly.

Death was inevitable in Occiasilva. Whether it was exhaustion from brutal physical labor in the quarries, or slow, gruesome starvation, or the blade or arrow of a Jackal who might have just been drunk or bored. How she'd ever managed to escape its cold reach for more than twenty summers, she did not know.

She was one of a handful of specially-trained Gleamwrights, which might have had something to do with it. The Lady Regent valued their guild above all others and gave them extra rations. But the girl in the mottled dress was still lean, her skin nut-brown. Every extra scrap she got went to the Resistance. Keeping it all to herself would have been wrong.

With every stride, she kept thinking. Today, she'd managed to talk another worker into at least _consider _joining. That made the grand total of Resistance members…fourteen, not counting herself.

So deep in thought was she, that she narrowly missed a shrump hole with her left foot. The little furry mammals thrived out on the open plain despite everything. Like herself, they were survivors. She had to admire them, even if they were hard to catch and didn't have much meat on them. They found a way. Just like she knew she had to.

It was nearly dark by the time she reached the stone cottage. Workdays, even for Gleamwrights, were long, and she was exhausted. Leave at sunrise, run to the quarry, work all day, come home as night fell. It was a familiar routine.

Inside the cottage it was almost completely dark. She reached into her apron pocket for one of two distinctly silver stones and shook it. It began to glow, and she immediately saw what was out of place.

Dinner was ready. A cauldron simmering over hot coals. If there was an intruder, he or she had gone out of their way to cook her evening stew.

"Is that a shiningstone in your pocket, or are you merely happy to see me?" The voice was boyish, familiar, and put her immediately at ease.

"Plink, you devil, don't you ever bother to knock?"

The speaker, also holding a shiningstone, emerged from his hiding place behind her overstuffed armchair. He was still more boy than man, all arms and legs with a shock of sandy hair and a spray of freckles across his face. The clothes he wore were as bright as the smile on his lips.

"My dear Anise, if I were to inquire as to the 'knockers' of your fair sex, I do think you'd jingle my bells permanently, wot?"

Anise laughed. It was hard not to laugh at a jongleur. Especially one with a natural gift for the art like Plink. She decided to humor him a bit.

"I don't suppose you have Plonk with you tonight?"

The jongleur feigned surprise, falling backward and gasping. When he recovered, he held atop his left hand a smaller, cloth version of himself, complete with scepter.

"When I 'eard Anise woz cooking tonight, love, I just 'ad to see for meself…and taste it 'fore my dear master dropped dead, yes…"

Anise shook her head. He never let it go that she was such a terrible cook. _When you're a Gleamwright, who needs to worry about cooking anyway? _She hastily tried to change the subject. "So, did you…or Plonk…get any news today?"

Jongleurs were an unusual, and unusually useful, guild. They were given full access to the Keep and were free to roam the grounds without too many questions. Best of all, because everyone thought of them as fools, they were excellent at overhearing things. She'd been Plink's friend for the past year; he was apprentice to the master Jongleur Rhyal and had a keen eye for detail.

"Lessee…nope, definitely not," said Plink, producing a live chicken from somewhere within his tunic along with a knotted piece of rope, a lump of coal, several pine cones…

"Plink." Anise hated his fool's act sometimes. "Did you get anything useful? Other than the hen?"

"Ah, here 'tis." He held a scrap of parchment to her. "Mind you, I never did read that well. It's Plonk that's the literary one. You'll 'ave to read it, love."

She grabbed it, heart pounding. _Any _news was exciting. And this news, she knew, had been stolen from one of the books at the Keep's library. Plink, among his other talents, had an uncanny talent for picking locks and sneaking around unseen.

The writing on the page was spidery and ancient. Anise squinted at it. It was written in the old dialect of Occiasilvan, in the form of a rhyme.

_She comes to the throne_

_ But lo, is a pretender_

_ And will the farmer and the smith_

_ Ever willingly defend her?_

_ Until the one emerald be found_

_ Cut and polished, in her crown_

_ Her reach not doth extend_

_ From Western Woods to world's end_

_ The princess, she will only fall_

_ From her tower, if at all_

_ With the help of…_

It was several moments before Anise realized she was holding her breath. The few lines she had just read were the prophecy, the prophecy that had been rumored for so long but never spoken aloud by anyone. Even Yarran's books, she was sure, didn't have anything like this in them.

"Where…" Her breath came out in a loud _whoosh_, "did you get this, Plink? Think hard."

"I don't have to think hard at all, my dear. It was on the third floor, second corridor. The bloody librarian was in the privy, so I just helped meself."

She looked at the paper again. Her heart sank. The entire part after the word "of" was torn, as if Plink had too quickly taken it out.

"You don't have any more? This is it?" Anise asked her friend, already knowing the answer.

"Knowing the shortage of privy paper at Ironloch, my dear…"

"Plink." She set down the paper on her table. "This is important. This could be the key for the entire Resistance, and you're making ruddy jokes about privy paper?"

"Sorry." He shrugged, grinning. "Don't know any about librarians."

He was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. Anise and her friend shared a nervous glance. They weren't expecting visitors, and any visit after dark in Occiasilva was never good. "Who is it?" Anise asked, trying to keep her voice level.

"Regent's Guardsmen. Open the damn door!"

_Jackals. _

How they found her was unimportant. They'd hang Plink if they knew he'd stolen from the Keep. She thought fast.

"Hide. Throw that in the fire. They're not looking for you," she said, unsure as to whether this was true. "Let me do the talking."

"As you wish," he whispered, and found the deepest shadow he could.

She opened the door and found herself face-to-face with a squad of six armored, spear-carrying Regent's Guardsmen. Their distinctive tabards with a jackal's head gave them their nickname, and they looked entirely the part. Their leader, a rangy black-bearded man, smiled at her unpleasantly.

"So, we 'ear this is a den for them rebel scum," he leered, his eyes wandering up and down her lean body. "Mind if we come in, take a look?"

Anise stood her ground. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Corporal." She was polite but firm. "I'm a humble Gleamwright to Her Ladyship, and I remain her loyal servant."

This was probably going a little over the top. But she knew how fanatically loyal the Jackals were to the Lady Regent, and it never hurt to be too polite to them. Too rude might cost her, or Plink, their lives. She had to be very careful.

At that very moment, the chicken Plink had brought clucked loudly. Anise felt her face flush.

"Wot was that, then, love?"

"N-nothing," she said. "Clearing my throat and…hey!"

The corporal pushed forcefully past her into the cottage. He found the chicken immediately and picked the squawking bird up by its legs.

"Been stealing from Her Ladyship, 'ave you, girly?" The man could barely contain his enthusiasm. The sentence for that was losing a hand, and, for the second offense, an appointment with the gallows.

"No…it's a mistake…please…I'm innocent…"

Anise had gone from firm and determined to pleading for her life in less than a minute. Funny how a squad of Jackals could do that to a person.

It was Plink who saved her. Barreling with all his lanky weight into the nearest Jackal, he howled and flailed.

"You leave her alone!"

The man he'd attacked flung him aside easily after the first moment of initial surprise. The little Jongleur went flying into the stone wall, where he landed with a sickening _crack _and crumpled to the floor.

"How dare you!" Indignation, and rage, had replaced the fear in Anise. She advanced toward the Guardsmen, who were roaring with laughter at her friend's injury. "You're all just a bunch of thugs and bloody cowards. One day, you'll…you'll…"

Cruelly, the corporal put a hand under her chin, which she swatted away. "We'll what, love? We'll what?" he asked, which made his men laugh even harder.

"You'll pay," she growled. "For all that you've done to our people."

"Ain't that sweet, lads? Little girly here and her fool friend gonna conquer Ironloch all by 'emselves."

She knew they had every right, and needed no excuse, to arrest her, drag her off to Ironloch and let her rot in the dungeons for merely raising her voice to them. But at that moment, she felt something give way inside her. At that moment, she didn't care anymore. She was tired of letting the Jackals, and their cruel mistress, dictate when and how much she could eat, sleep or work. She would not be a slave anymore.

But what could she _really_ do? She was only a peasant girl with a pitiful "resistance movement" whose few members included a fool, a renegade Dwarf, a crazed woodsman who _claimed _to have been a Necromancer, a long, long time ago…

"We'll be confiscatin' this chicken, love. Be grateful our next stop's the Sagewater Distillery and it's a Fifthnight, otherwise," he rubbed one finger threateningly under his armored coif, "we'd be takin' a bit more, understand?"

And with another roar of laughter, the corporal slammed the door behind him, causing one of the pieces of pottery on the wall to crash to the floor with it.

Her breath still came out quickly in and out. Her heart pounded in her ribcage. It was only the sound of Plink's moans that cleared the red haze from her field of vision.

"Oh, Plink," she said, moving to her friend's side. "What got into you?"

She had to admire his courage. Taking on a full squad of Jackals, unarmed, by himself…

_Either he's braver than I thought, or, sweet gods forbid, does he actually _like _me? _

"Don't suppose you've any of that lovely jonpha tea? I hear it's good for the aches and pains, wot." Despite his obvious pain, he was still trying to crack jokes. That was a good sign.

"Here, let's get you up…"

He flinched and moaned when she wrapped an arm around his left side. The left arm dangled limply at his side.

"At least it wasn't me good arm, eh?" he joked.

"What are we going to do, Plink?"

"Before or after we drink the jonpha tea?"

"That's not what I meant," she said gently, moving him into a more comfortable position on the armchair. "I mean, the Resistance." The last word came out a passionate whisper.

He blinked. He didn't naturally go against the grain the way she did, but he'd always been an excellent listener. So she continued.

"If this prophecy is true, it means we have hope. It means the Resistance can win." She spoke as if the entire kingdom were listening, not just a single Jongleur. "Don't you want to live in a kingdom where everyone is free? Where they can make their own decisions and live their lives the way they want?"

Plink, with his good shoulder, shrugged. "Don't bloody well see how much it matters, Anise. My life ain't terrible; I get nice vittles and all the grog I want, telling second-rate jokes for a living all day at the Keep. Not a bad life, eh?" His voice had changed from playful and joking to weary.

"What about Knorri? And Yarran? Eana? What about them?"

He sighed. "You know, I only joined the bloody Resistance because you're my friend. You know what they'd do to me if they ever found out?"

It was the first time he'd admitted as much. "Isn't that a good enough reason?" she said, her face inches from his. "Just think about what I said, all right? And drink this." She handed him a mug of jonpha tea, looking for a spark of sympathy in his eyes and finding none.

He drained the mug. In a matter of seconds, his eyes drooped shut. Along with the jonpha leaves, Anise had included a few drops of liquid ekalo so he'd be sure to sleep through the pain.

Only after she was sure he slept did she allow herself to cry.

She so rarely did anymore. It seemed so pointless with all the rain and death and pain and misery that was life in Occiasilva under Lady Malka and her Jackals. But she did now, a harsh and racking series of sobs that made her whole body shake.

_What would _Yarran _do_? She thought. He was the closest thing to a father she knew, and while he wasn't what she would consider wise, he was old enough to remember when King Abramond still reigned. Anise always loved it when the old ex-wizard told those stories.

The crying stopped and she imagined Yarran's thin, wheezy voice in her mind.

_Always look inside your heart, girl, not your head. The head always gets you into so much needless trouble. Follow your heart and you'll do just brilliantly._

When she'd been little, that always made her laugh. Who could look inside their heart? If the hearts at the butcher's stall were any indication, that seemed to her a pretty strange proposition. And as for following it, well, where in the world could such a thing lead?

Smiling at her youthful ignorance, she touched the spot right above her heart. It was still pumping hard after the encounter with the Jackals and the thought of being arrested. Then, her fingers found something she wasn't expecting.

She'd all but forgotten it was there. It was a small cloth pouch she'd sewn inside her apron pouch ages ago, probably when the garment had been new. She reached inside and detached it now, trying to remember what was inside. Then, it came to her. Yarran, of course.

"Those are magic seeds," the old man had said conspiratorially when he gave them to her. "From a magical green pomegranate. Throw them down a hollow tree on the night of a new moon, turn around thrice, and spit on the ground. Wish for your heart's desire, my girl, and it shall be yours."

Like so many of Yarran's so-called spells, she'd dismissed them at the time as quackery. But, since he was such a good friend, she'd taken them and promised to keep them "close to her heart." That had been six years ago.

She glanced at the sleeping form of Plink on the armchair. He'd begun to snore loudly.

Then, a glance at the door, as if the Jackals might be returning any moment.

It was, she realized, the night of the full moon. And there was a hollow tree somewhere in the woods behind her cottage. What could she possibly have to lose?

Leaving Plink and the untouched cauldron of stew behind, she lit a single candle and, satisfied that no Jackals were lurking, made her way uphill to the spot of last summer's fierce thunderstorm, where lightning had blasted open a massive oak. The poor tree hadn't ever recovered; it was little more than a hollow stump.

Anise stopped just before it, taking the pouch from her apron. She realized that Yarran hadn't exactly told her how this was supposed to work. Were there magic words, or an incantation? Something like that? Knowing him, an omission of a single word (_she dimly remembered a spell that sounded a little like _"Kladda Baradda Niktoo" _going horribly awry) _could mean disaster.

But she did know her heart's desire. More than she'd ever known anything in her life. She took a deep breath and moved closer to the dead oak.

Was she supposed to speak it aloud? She had no idea. She guessed.

"Please, we need a hero…." She paused. This was her heart's desire. She had to get it exactly right.

"We don't just need a hero. We need a whole team of heroes to save Occiasilva. We can't keep fighting without help. That's my heart's desire."

She flung the pomegranate seeds as hard as she could down the hollow oak stump, turned around three times, and spit on the ground, just as Yarran had instructed.

What Anise missed on her third turn was the tiny flash of silver light at the bottom of the hollow tree.

_To Be Continued…_

_ (Author's Note: Yes, this is an A-Team story, I promise! Our boys will make their grand entrance next chapter. I know this is a little AU and experimental, but I hope it will come out. Any and all comments are welcome.)_


	2. Enter the Dragon and One Knight Later

_Chapter 2: Enter The Dragon, And One Knight Later_

Dr. Melina Drake hadn't gotten where she was by being a nice girl.

She'd heard every perjorative word in the book for a woman like her. Ice Princess. Frigid. Bitchy. "Queen of Mean." And she devoured those words the way some people ate fine caviar.

Mostly her cool, businesslike demeanor just annoyed her colleagues, especially the men. Today's meeting had been no exception. She sat at the head of a long conference room table, around which sat six doctors, only one of whom was a woman. They were all looking up at her with a curious blend of confusion and hostility.

"And in conclusion, I wouldn't be here today, gentlemen…and lady…if the matter weren't of the highest importance. The head of the VA sent me here all the way from Washington," she paused so the words could sink in with their desired weight, "to _fix _things."

She displayed her perfect white teeth to them in a smile utterly without warmth. It was the look of a lioness poised to disembowel a hapless zebra.

As to what precisely she was supposed to fix, well, that wasn't really important. The idea was that she fixed things that needed fixing by any means possible. There was a reason the people back in DC called her "The Dragon" behind her back instead of, perhaps, "The Unicorn." Behind the sun-kissed skin, shoulder-length curls and model-quality good looks, she was all claws and teeth.

"Miss Drake…"

"_Doctor_ Drake," she snapped. She was only thirty-four but looked even younger. Men were always patronizing her that way, and it made her stomach churn.

"Dr. Drake. My apologies. Forgive me for asking after your thorough presentation, but the Veterans' Administration sent you all the way to us from DC just so you could corral a few stray patients? There's so much staff turnover here, and the workers we do keep are overworked and underpaid. Just making sure every patient gets their correct dosage every day is a challenge." The balding man to her right flushed slightly as if embarrassed that his hospital was such a disgrace.

She rose from her chair, seeing that her looming presence over him had its desired effect. His blush turned from light rose to deeper crimson.

"Dr. Rabinowicz." She spoke softly, gently, the way a kindergarten teacher might to a slow student. "The entire point of hospitalization is that the patient is kept here for his own good. If he's not in the hospital, how can we possibly help him?"

The other doctors, including the woman, were nodding like a collection of matching bobble-head dolls.

"I suppose you're right…" muttered Rabinowicz, looking down at his hands.

"Oh, I _know_ I'm right." Dr. Drake beamed. "I've successfully trouble-shot and turned around the culture at hospitals from Maine to Florida to Washington. And this one will be no different. Has each of you brought the files on your 'problem children' as I requested?"

More bobble-head nodding. The one exception was the man at the far end of the table, an older guy who hadn't said anything during the entire meeting. She frowned and pointed to him.

"Did you have something to add, Doctor…?"

"Richter." He swallowed, then cleared his throat. "Forgive me for saying so, Doctor, but keeping a man here against his will is not the easiest thing to do. It's not a prison. Many of our patients, I think you'll find, are much smarter and wilier than they may lead us to believe."

Melina scoffed. "With respect, Dr. Richter, I don't think any of these emotionally traumatized individuals are a match for my eight years at Yale."

If Richter was convinced otherwise, he didn't say so. From inside his briefcase, he fished out a manila folder, jammed with paperwork. The dossier was as thick as a Los Angeles phone directory.

"Dr. Drake, I only have one 'problem child' in my caseload, as you so delicately put it. I'll leave him to your expert opinion." He tried to keep the ironic tone out of his voice.

"I'd be much obliged. Judging by the length of his notes, he'll be my top priority. Where can I find him?" she asked.

"He's in 214. As you leave, take a left, then up the stairs. Three doors down."

Dr. Drake smiled wickedly. "Thank you. I'll need that too," she said, taking the file with her and exiting the conference room.

"Just don't say I didn't warn you," Dr. Richter muttered under his breath as the door clicked shut behind her.

` Dr. Drake strode through the hallways of the Westwood VA like she owned the place. Technically, she did. Her supervisors always gave her _carte blanche_ in all these hospitals where security and attention to detail had become so lax.

_By whatever means necessary. _It had become her personal motto. She'd even thought of making it her epitaph.

As she walked, almost everyone, with the exception of the catatonic ones, glanced at her. Though she favored conservative-cut power suits in staid navy and charcoal, secretly she enjoyed the attention. She commanded it, with her bearing and voice, and by virtue of her position as Deputy Assistant Undersecretary of Veterans' Affairs Hospitals.

If she'd lived four hundred years ago, she knew, she'd have been a queen. These poor fools scurrying around the hallways would have been the ones to fetch things for her and amuse her. They were too stupid to do anything else.

Room 214 was right where Dr. Richter said it would be. It was like every other room in this house of pain, covered in several layers of cheap white paint with only a small window. Locked, of course.

She didn't bother knocking, but simply unlocked the door with her master key. If the people who lived here had fallen so far in their lives, their privacy really didn't matter.

If the exterior of the room had been cold and institutional, its interior was a bit of a surprise to her. There were finger paintings on the walls, a number of brightly-colored t-shirts with slogans tacked up too, a bed with a Star Wars comforter, a trio of dormant arcade game machines that resembled an electronic-age Stonehenge.

Someone had gone out of his way to make himself at home. Like this was a playhouse instead of a treatment facility.

Drake's lips curled back in a smile. She'd soon change that. The quickest way to get rid of rats, in her experience, was to get rid of the things that made them want to mooch and malinger for the long-term. That meant all this patient's cute little toys would be the first things to go.

"Orderly!" she barked.

One appeared right away, then another. Two guys in white uniforms who were probably only a bit too small to play defensive line for the Rams.

"Ma'am?" asked the bigger one, confused. "He been botherin' you?"

"Of course not." Drake guessed the patient was simply out of his room, getting thousands of volts pumped through his system or some other procedure that passed for "treatment" in this place. "I want all this nonsense out of here, straightaway," she said, gesturing to the arcade machines and other effects casually.

The second orderly actually snorted with laughter.

"And what, might I ask, is so funny?" Dr. Drake asked coolly.

"Didn't they _warn _you about this guy, miss?"

She didn't bother telling him to call her _Doctor_. She figured he was the kind of simple person on whom it wouldn't stick. "I'm afraid that Mr…." She paused, leafing through the huge file, "Mr. Murdock is my problem now. The first step in his road to recovery is seeing that he behaves like a grown man, not some little boy permanently stuck in a childhood fantasy."

The two orderlies glanced nervously at one another. "Shouldn't we, y'know, ask him first, miss?" the first one asked.

Drake raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "We do not ask patients their opinion, Orderly. That is why we are medical professionals and they are patients."

"He's probably listening to everything we say right now…he's sneaky…"

"Excuse me?"

"He's in here right now, unless he's run off yet again. Haven't seen that blond pal of his for a while," the big orderly said, shrugging. "Old Murdock's not a bad guy. Just a little, what's the word, Ty?"

"Nuts?" Ty offered.

Drake sighed. "We will not use that type of language here. It's derogatory and counterproductive to the methodology of wellness," she said in her kindergarten-teacher voice.

"Um, huh?"

"Never mind." She closed the manila folder, where she'd been glancing over some of Richter's neat handwritten notes and seeing words like _curable _and _functional _and _lucid _jump out at her. "I need to speak to this patient personally. Where did you say I could find him?"

"Anybody's guess. One time he tried to dig a frickin' tunnel outta here…remember that, Ty?"

"Yeah, man. Better than _Hogan's Heroes…"_

"If you _had _to guess, where do you think he might be?" Drake interrupted. Her patience with Tweedledee and Tweedledum was wearing thin rapidly.

"Ummm…" Ty scrunched up his face in thought. "Check the closet. He's been in there a lot recently. Don't ask."

She was mildly surprised there _was _a closet. This room was big anyway; must have been a California thing, since many of the rooms in similar facilities were no bigger than the average prison cell. Murdock's room was the size of a decent studio apartment back East.

Ty, it turned out, had been correct. Inside the tiny space, along with even more t-shirts and what looked like half a toy store's inventory of Legos, was the figure of H.M. Murdock: in a perfect seated yoga Cobbler's Pose with his eyes closed and a serious expression on his face.

He was completely naked.

This didn't bother Drake in the least. She tapped her fist on the closet door frame. "Mr. Murdock? I need to speak with you. Your calisthenics can wait until another time."

Behind her, Ty and his co-worker stood at the ready, two guards flanking their monarch.

"Mr. Murdock, you must be awake. I see you're breathing nicely there. Get up now, or I'll have to ask these gentlemen to help you."

His eyes snapped open. She suppressed a gasp. They were bright, like two chips of darkest obsidian, and twinkled with something other than just garden-variety craziness. There was intelligence, and wile, there. She spontaneously decided to use a different strategy.

"So, Mr. Murdock, I see you have a nice," she swept her arm, "collection. You seem quite proud of it."

If he heard, he didn't immediately react. He just stood up, stretched to his full lanky height, and began pulling on his rumpled clothes from their heap on the floor. Only when he'd finished did he address her, with a slight bow and a quavering voice that sounded like a comedy club hack's impersonation of Gandhi.

_"There is nothing noble in being superior to some other man. The true nobility is in being superior to your previous self."_

"Excuse me, Mr. Murdock…"

Still unsure as to whether he was listening, she followed him across the room to his bed, where he took a reclining pose on his back, then leaned over its side, as if he were checking for monsters underneath.

"Are you even listening to me?" She sat beside him, realizing that he had his eyes closed again.

The words that came out of his mouth were not English, and sounded to her like the kind of Hindu chanting she'd once seen in a _National Geographic _special. She looked to the orderlies as if for support.

"Told you. He's usually like this," Ty explained.

"Want us to get the doc?" the other guy asked.

"No," said Drake softly, again not bothering to remind him that _she _was a doctor. She leaned down, making sure her voice was low enough so only Murdock could hear her. "Dr. Richter says you're a bit of an escape artist, and that you're a lot smarter than you pretend to be. I regret to say your days of playing all of us for fools are at an end."

She could have been mistaken, but she thought she saw the slightest twitch at the corners of his eyes. She pressed the advantage. She could smell blood.

"Mr. Murdock, let me say this in simple terms so you'll be sure to understand me. If you don't behave yourself and stop this ridiculous Harry Houdini act, I can make life very, very difficult for you. Starting with getting rid of your cute little toys. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

Whether her threat had been effective, or whether he was just tired of blood rushing to his head, she wasn't sure, but he raised himself to a seated posture on the bed and stared straight at her. There was only the slightest glint of madness in those eyes, and his voice was right out of an old movie about the British Raj.

_"_The silliest woman can manage a clever man; but it needs a very clever woman to manage a fool," he said softly.

"I see." Drake shied away, standing up. Something about the way he looked at her made her uneasy. Patients never did had that effect on her, but she sensed this guy was different somehow.

She'd break him. They all broke in the end.

But then his strange moment of clarity was gone, and Murdock had gone back to a Seated Cobbler, fully clothed this time, mouthing mantras under his breath.

"You're lucky, miss. You should see him when he has all his invisible pets in here," Ty's friend said with a chuckle. "Then it's all hands on deck and break out the tranqs."

Drake circled Murdock's bed, watching him with cold eyes. Every one of these cretins, she knew, had a weakness. It was just a matter of finding what it was. Cut out the heart, and the body died soon after.

She sensed that the way to this man's heart was through his _things_.

"If you're not going to play _nicely_, Mr. Murdock, we'll see how you feel after I've taken away your precious toys." She snapped her fingers. Murdock didn't blink, but Tweedledum and Tweedledee flinched and straightened at attention.

"What did I tell you two? I want all of this junk gone." They blustered, nearly running into each other in their haste.

She smiled. Like her namesake, about to flambé a knight to a burning cinder inside his armor with her venomous breath.

"I'm sure we're going to be the best of friends, Mr. Murdock."

"Murdock, you're breaking up. _What_ did you say happened?"

He paced the now nearly-empty room with the agitation of a caged panther at feeding time. One hand gripped the phone receiver, the other was balled into a tight fist.

"I said, Face," he repeated, doing everything he could to keep his voice level, "that this witch came in and took all my stuff. Cleaned me right out like a yard sale. That's my private property! I'm not gonna stand for it…Face? You there?"

It was hard to tell with the heavy static. If Murdock had guessed, he'd have thought his friend was surfing in the middle of a typhoon.

"Yeah," the faint voice came back. "I just thought you used another euphemism for a woman, that's all."

Murdock was surprised he hadn't. What had he ever done to deserve this evil woman? Richter had quietly tolerated his many escapes for years, never said so much as a word during their sessions. A terrible thought danced across his mind suddenly.

"Face, you don't think Decker's finally onto me, do ya?"

A pause at the other end. "I doubt it. You know how closely we keep track of that, and we've always been so careful." More crackling static. "Did she say anything useful? Have any kind of ID? She's no MP or Army Intelligence; even the pretty ones never wear 4-inch heels…"

"She's no spook, either. I know their kind too well. But she smells like DC perfume, for sure," Murdock said, twisting the phone cord around his fingers as he spoke. "Question is, why me? And why now?"

"I don't know, Murdock. I wish I had some answers. But just hang tight. We'll find out about the girl, so don't worry." With the static, he could only ever hear every other word Face was saying.

"When you guys comin' back? I'm here all by my lonesome, and it's no fun. Now that I got no Galaga to soothe my troubled soul, it's even worse."

He was still a little angry that his teammates had gone down to Puerto Vallarta without him. But Hannibal had assured him that it would be a quickie 5-day shoot for _Las Chupacabras vs. the Aquamaniac_, and B.A. had refused to drive all the way to Mexico with "a crazy fool wit' the flu" in the van, even though Murdock's ailment had just turned out to be a mild cold. So he'd been the odd man out.

"First thing tomorrow. Don't get your khakis in a twist. I'll even throw in a new t-shirt for you, OK?" Face said.

Murdock glanced forlornly at the now-blank walls. "Yep, I could use one now that my wicked stepmother stole my glad-rags and everything…" Another rattle of static. "Face, what's that noise, anyway?"

"Oh, that." Face laughed. "It's the remnants of Tropical Storm Josefina. More bark than bite."

"Can I talk to the Colonel real quick?"

"I'm afraid he's in the middle of his climactic fight scene with the Atomic Langostino," Face apologized. "I'll give him your best."

"What about the Big Guy?" Three days without his friends had made Murdock edgy, anxious and nervous. He'd twisted the phone cord so hard, his fingers were going numb.

"_He's _off trying to get some milk. You know what they say, never drink the water down here…"

Murdock sat on the bed, which still had the Star Wars comforter on it. At least she'd left him that. "Face, you really gotta help me. This gal makes the queen in _Snow White _look like Mother Teresa," he pleaded. And the best way to any woman's heart, Murdock knew, was one of Face's megawatt smiles.

"Oh, give me a few minutes with her and she'll be nibbling at her own poison apple," Face assured him. "I gotta run, Murdock, B.A.'s gonna kill me with these long-distance ch…"

His voice faded, and was gone. Maybe Josefina had knocked out the Mexican phone lines after all, or maybe Face had just hung up on him. Murdock tried redialing the van's number, then thought better of it. The Dragon Lady may not have been CIA, but she might have had the foresight to tap his line. That would mean Deckerbugs crawling all over, and quite possibly the end of the Team's secret weapon and a court martial. Not a good thing.

The sunlight through the window was fading now, and Murdock realized for the first time how empty his room really was. The orderlies had taken the arcade machines first, leaving a blank wall in their place. Then his TV, most of his toys, even the paintings he'd created. The result was a lot of white space and sadness in their place.

Once his teammates came back, he was sure things would get back to normal. The question was, what would he do until then? All the things that reliably brought him joy and comfort were gone. Dr. Drake had taken them to who knew where. Hopefully not the incinerator.

A spark flared to life in his imagination. Of course!

The one place she hadn't touched was the closet. Maybe she figured his private stuff was in there, or maybe beneath the cruel veneer she actually had a shred of decency. He guessed the former rather than the latter.

"Onward and forward I ride," he said in an uncanny imitation of Graham Chapman as King Arthur. "Against the foul enchantress who has cast her spell upon me, I seek the talisman that will release her hex and restore the land to its former glories, tallyho!"

He galloped around the room on an imaginary horse, clacking his tongue to mimic the sounds of hoofbeats.

Had B.A. spotted him at that very moment, he might have started admonishing him loudly for interacting with yet another invisible equine. But B.A. was far to the south, and Murdock was in full cry. He found his favorite wooden sword underneath the bed and tucked it into his belt. No hero rode into battle unarmed.

"Whoa, good Mathilda," he said, reaching down where the horse's neck might have been. "It is but the vestiges of the evil with you smell. Fear not, we shall be bold!" And he reared up and galloped toward the closet.

So deep was he into his heroic persona, Murdock didn't notice at first that the closet appeared far deeper than a few cubic feet. Somewhere beyond the hanging t-shirts and khakis, a hint of dark green. Only when he took another step forward did it dawn on him.

"Steady there, Mathilda…."

And then he fell.

Anise was tired of waiting. The sun would be up soon, and Plink's medicine would be wearing off. She sighed and turned away. The "magic" seeds were only another of Yarran's experiments that had failed. What else was new?

She was halfway down the hill toward her cottage when she heard the groaning. It was soft, but she knew the sound of someone in pain when she heard it.

It was hard to tell who was more astonished: the man who emerged like a spectre from the hollow oak tree, or herself. It was all she could do not to scream.

"I gotta ask one thing," said the man in a strange accent, climbing out and staggering toward her on wobbly legs. "Are all the closets at the hospital that big? Or did I just never notice?" And he collapsed again.

Anise screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

_To Be Continued_

_(Author's Notes: Yes, this is meant to be vaguely Harry Potter-ish. And yes, that is a real Rudyard Kipling quote Murdock speaks. Finally, the rest of the Team is coming, I promise!)_


	3. The Power of Four

**Chapter 3: The Power of Four**

"Face, we're almost there," said Hannibal for at least the fifth time.

"You really don't think Decker had anything to do with this, do you?"

None of them really wanted to admit it, but they'd all been wondering the same thing ever since they'd crossed the border. Every time they'd tried to call, Murdock's phone had just kept ringing and gone straight to his answering machine message ("_This is H.M. Murdock, and_ _I'm temporarily outta my mind…when I get back in, I'll call ya, muchachos!") _He was never allowed out of his room for more than an hour or so at a time, for group therapy or arts and crafts or for a meal.

Something was wrong.

"Crazy Man gotta be there. They never let him out."

"I'm not sure what's going on either, B.A. Let's not jump the gun on this." Hannibal stared out the passenger window, an unlit cigar drooping from one corner of his mouth. "Face, when was the last time you talked to him?"

Face sighed. "Yesterday afternoon. While you were busy wrestling in the middle of a tropical storm surge with a retired _luchador_ in a rubber alien suit, remember?"

Hannibal allowed himself a grin along with the memory. "Yeah. I really think I brought a nice sense of pathos to the Aquamaniac in that one. It was almost like the final act of _King Lear_."

"You weren't doin' nothin' except collectin' a lousy paycheck for a lousy movie, man," B.A. muttered as he swung the van onto Westwood Boulevard.

"B.A., any actor can collect a paycheck. I just prefer to collect mine with some style."

In the back seat, Face had been thumbing through his boxed collection of counterfeit IDs, as if seeking inspiration. "What do you think, Hannibal? Civil servant, military type or long-lost family member this time? Murdock said this new hospital administrator was really a hard case."

"You were INS last time, remember? Murdock's drug dealer cousins were illegally in the country from Maldonia, and he had to be taken in for questioning?" Hannibal reminded him.

"Oh, yeah…" He stopped. "How about ATF? Haven't used that one in a while…"

"Faceman, you just do whatever you gotta do," said B.A., slowing the van and scanning the parking lot for any sign of MP sedans. "Crazy Man's in trouble, I know it."

Face stopped his ID-browsing, shocked, and Hannibal shot a curious glance at the big man.

"Are you telling me you're actually worried about Murdock?" Face asked with hesitation.

"I ain't tellin' you nothin'," B.A. said, pulling into an empty space beside a Dumpster. "I just got a real bad feeling about all this."

"Last time I saw you like this, Murdock was bleeding all over your seats."

"Don't remind me, man," growled B.A. "Took me forever to get them stains out."

"So, what's it gonna be, Lieutenant?" asked Hannibal.

Face selected a badge and clipped it to his lapel. "Door number two. American Medical Association. Women professionals always love that one."

"Well, Doctor…" Hannibal glanced at the false name on Face's ID, "Hargreaves, you watch your step. I'm with B.A. on this one. We don't know anything about what's going on. It could be nothing but one of Decker's traps. If you even see an MP, get out of there fast. Last thing we need is Murdock's cover getting blown. Got it?"

"Right." Face slipped his sidearm into the shoulder holster under his blazer. "Wish me luck, guys?"

Hannibal and B.A. shared a look that said, _Luck isn't exactly what I had in mind._

"Call once you get in there."

"Hey, piece of cake. I'm not worried. I've done this a hundred times," said Face as he pulled open the side door and stepped down.

"He's walkin' into a trap, man, I know it," B.A. said almost to himself as Face made his way to the entrance.

xxx

"I'm hoping you might direct me to H.M. Murdock's room."

Nothing was out of the ordinary, at least nothing Face could see. Same bored-looking orderlies in the halls, no visible additional security, a knockout of a little redhead working the nurse's station. Seeing her confusion, he flashed his most brilliant smile along with his fake ID.

"Dr. Nigel Hargreaves. AMA. You _did _get the paperwork my office sent over, I hope?"

The nurse blinked. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five and she had huge, dewy eyes. "Um…I, like, have to check with my supervisor. She wants us to always ask first now. New hospital policy, you know?"

_Interesting, _thought Face. Must be the doing of the woman Murdock had warned him about. He kept the smile and leaned a little closer to the redhead nurse.

"Miss…Wharton, is it? I really shouldn't tell you, but my visit today concerns an experimental trial of a new psychotropic medication, for which Mr. Murdock was specifically chosen. Time is of the essence. I have a Town Car outside right now, waiting to take him to…"

"What's going on here?"

The newcomer's voice was feminine but commanding. Face turned and met her gaze.

It was all he could do not to gape. She looked much more like a model and much less like a hospital bureaucrat. Even with her pinstriped power suit, stern expression and conservative pearl jewelry, she was stunning.

"I don't believe we've met, Doctor…?"

"Drake. Dr. Melina Drake." She didn't take Face's outstretched hand, but instead gave a curt nod. "I'm afraid this ward is off-limits except during visitors' hours. I'll have to ask you to leave."

Face was expecting her salvo, and already had a counterattack ready. "I understand, Doctor. We at the AMA are extremely conscientious of patient rights and hospital rules. However, this Murdock _was_ specifically recommended to us as a test subject, and my office made the request three weeks in advance."

The documents he'd written up and put in Murdock's file when Nurse Wharton had been distracted said as much. But Face could tell that Melina Drake, unlike most of the people in this place, was no fool. Worse, she was the suspicious, nearly paranoid type.

"I'll have to verify that. I'll need your supervisor's name," Drake said.

Face laughed drily. He'd been ready for this too. "I _am_ the supervisor at our branch, Doctor. In fact, I drove all the way from San Diego specifically for this patient. Do you think I wouldn't rather be guest-speaking today at a lunch conference in La Jolla instead of coming here?"

She regarded him coolly yet hungrily. Face wondered if this was the way a cat looked at a helpless mouse. Finally, she sighed. "I'll still need to verify. You can wait here while I call the San Diego branch and make sure everything is in order."

"Would you mind if I, um, answered nature's call? It was a long drive," Face asked with a hint of an embarrassed smile.

Drake stared at him as if he were speaking Russian. Then she jerked one hand down the hallway. "Fine," she snapped. "Take a left, and then three doors down."

"Thank you."

Face hurried down the corridor, trying to look casual. He had no intention of going to the restroom, but if there was one thing Hannibal had instilled in him over the years, it was that five minutes was all you needed for a simple surveillance mission. And the old going to the men's room trick was one nobody ever questioned.

He didn't see any MPs on his way, and he hadn't seen any trace of a military presence at the hospital yet. Dr. Drake may have been a control freak, but she didn't seem to be one of Decker's bird dogs despite their similar temperaments.

Murdock's room, he hoped, hadn't been moved. He knocked once, softly, thinking maybe he'd get lucky and his friend would answer.

No answer. As he glanced through the little window, he was shocked. Almost all of Murdock's beloved things were gone: the arcade machines, many of which he himself had scammed, the paintings, even the little black-and-white TV. It was as if nobody lived there at all. Then he spotted Murdock's well-loved bomber jacket hanging on a hook.

Murdock would never go anywhere without that jacket.

_Then where the hell was he?_

Twenty seconds with a lockpick, and Face was inside. It was empty, eerily quiet, and smelled of industrial-grade cleaner. No trace, aside from the jacket and the threadbare Star Wars quilt, that Murdock had ever been here at all.

He absently wondered how Drake and her minions had managed to miss a patient for almost an entire day. Then again, Murdock had faked even his own well-trained eyes out from time to time. To find him, you had to think like he did. _Like a crazy man._ _Or a crazy fox._

"Murdock, this isn't funny," said Face, checking under the bed, behind the dresser, even up above on the ceiling. He felt like a father looking for a naughty son. "If you're here, come on out. Hannibal and B.A. and I are getting worried about you."

He checked his watch. Three minutes gone. He had no idea when Drake would be onto his ruse, and he had to hurry.

The answering machine was full. He'd left several coded messages earlier that sounded innocent to an outsider…a Senate candidate trolling for votes, a wrong number asking for a Mrs. O'Leary…yet all of which Murdock would have understood clearly. But, as far as Face could tell, Murdock hadn't checked his messages at all since they'd been left The little red light was still blinking.

Face felt his heart hammering. Nothing like this had never happened before. Could B.A. be right? Could something terrible, like a surprise Decker visit with reinforcements, have happened to his best friend?

He was about to reach for the phone to call Hannibal and B.A. outside when he spotted the one place he hadn't thought to look yet. The closet.

It was a tiny space, certainly nothing compared to his own walk-in model, but it was just big enough for a limber body like Murdock's. He opened the door. And yelped.

Murdock was there, curled into a fetal position and covered in leaves and other debris. He was shaking, and his eyes were wide.

Face didn't know whether he wanted more to hug him, or throw a left hook at him.

"_Where have you been? _

That look. The crazed light in Murdock's huge brown eyes, which Face could never tell was true insanity or else an Oscar-worthy performance. Now, merely it scared him.

"Faceman…" Murdock was breathless, as if he'd been running, "have I got a story to tell you….maybe you should sit down…"

"Just tell me where you were first…is that a caterpillar?"

"Yup." Murdock brushed it from his tangled hair. "And that ain't all…"

xxx

The van's engine idled. It was the only sound, and the remaining silence was oppressive. Finally, Hannibal spoke.

"Occiasilva?" he asked. "And this is a real place, Captain?"

Murdock nodded fervently. "As real as Narnia. Colonel, those folks really need us. Who else do you think's gonna help 'em?"

None of the Team had touched the cold beverages they'd purchased. The van was parked behind a nondescript 7-11 a few blocks from the hospital. For the last half hour, Murdock had spun his tale to explain his mysterious disappearance, and subsequent visit to what he claimed was an entire world on the other side of his closet. He'd just now finished, and sat waiting for his friends' reactions.

Hannibal's calm expression, as usual, betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. Beside Murdock, Face appeared as if he'd been force-fed something extremely unpleasant, and at the wheel, B.A.'s face was a map of rage and scowling eyebrows.

"You been drinkin' antifreeze again, fool?" he growled, raising one fist and turning. "'Cause I about had it with your jibber-jabber…"

"I was really there, B.A. It wasn't a dream. Way too real. Even pinched myself on the shoulder, just to be sure."

As B.A. and Murdock squabbled, Face shook his head. For the last two days, he'd been worried sick about his friend, and now this. Was Murdock regressing again? Going back instead of forward? Or had Drake done something to him? Pumped his veins full of some mind-bending substance?

"Murdock, it's not that we don't believe you, but…we don't believe you," he said as tactfully as he could, putting a hand on Murdock's forearm. "Maybe they just showed _The Wizard of Oz _at movie night yesterday and you ate too much popcorn?"

The pilot pulled back as if burned. "Face, I may be crazy, but I ain't stupid. I met a nice girl there. She's got a real problem. That entire kingdom a' hers has been oppressed forever. I thought that's the kind of people we always helped." He stopped when he the lingering skepticism in Face's eyes, and turned to Hannibal instead.

"Colonel, you do believe me, don't you?"

The entire conversation, Hannibal hadn't said a word. He puffed thoughtfully on his fresh cigar.

"I don't know. Seems to me that if slimeballs can exist in this world, they can exist in other worlds, too. Can you remember anything else about this place, Captain?"

B.A. was incredulous. "You don't actually believe this _Wonderland _rap?"

"I'm not saying I do or don't. Why would he bother making all of this up? And B.A., you know the rules about staying in contact. Murdock wouldn't break those rules without a very good reason."

"That's right, big guy," said Murdock, emboldened at having an advocate. "You know how I get when I can't throw insults at you for a full 24 hours."

"Shut up!" barked B.A., and for the moment, Murdock did.

Face took the first sip of his pink lemonade. He was still recovering from having to dodge orderlies and escape through the hospital's back door with the wildly babbling Murdock in tow. "None of this makes any sense. Murdock, if you did go to this Disneyland place or whatever it was…"

"Occiasilva," Murdock supplied.

"Right. If you went there and had this marvelous adventure like you say, how'd you manage to get back? And why couldn't I see the trees and castles through the back of the closet?"

Murdock thought about it for a moment, and shrugged. "I dunno, Faceman. All I know is I told this gal I'd ask my team and then get back to her. She needs all four of us. I can't save a whole oppressed kingdom by myself. I'm the Dread Pilot, not the Dread Pirate, ya know?"

"Say what?" B.A. snapped.

"You never read _The Princess Bride, _big guy?"

Hannibal interrupted before their spat could flare up again. "Maybe it's a doorway of some kind. Maybe it only opens at a certain phase of the moon, or only on a Thursday. Did I ever tell you guys about that _Robin Hood and His Undead Merry Men _picture I shot with Jer?"

"No, you didn't," Face said impatiently, "but, Hannibal, you're telling me you actually believe this cockamamie story?"

"It's not a cockamamie story, Face. It's a tale worthy of the Brothers Grimm, set in the far, far away kingdom of Occiasilva. They have everything: an evil queen, a poor peasant girl, a wizard, ooh, they even have talking animals…"

B.A.'s tolerance level for Murdock's craziness had reached its limit. The big man turned around completely in his seat, seizing the taller man underneath his collar. "I had enough of this. You just a babblin' fool and none a' this happened. Jus' a made-up story!" he roared.

Between gasps of air, Murdock was sputtering something about ogres.

"B.A., let him go," Hannibal ordered, and Murdock was free to breathe again. "I need to think for a minute…."

"So what do you suggest we do?" Face asked in the ensuing tense silence. "I can't just waltz right back in there. They'll be waiting for me, and this Drake woman knows what I look like now."

"Sure we can," Hannibal shot back cheerfully. "It'll be the exact opposite of their line of thinking, meaning they'll leave the back door completely unguarded. Besides, they won't be expecting us," he gestured to himself and B.A., "just the two of you."

B.A. shook his head. "I ain't goin' nowhere with this fool. Ain't I worried about him enough for one day?"

For the first time since they'd rescued him, Murdock beamed, the smile lighting up his face. "Why, Grumpy, you do care," he said in a breathy, high-pitched voice, fluttering his eyelashes.

"Shut up."

"So, let's take a quick vote," Hannibal said. "All in favor of going to at least check out whether Murdock's story is true?"

Two hands went right up; his own and Murdock's. Hannibal glared at Face.

"What? It's Friday night. You know I usually have Fridays booked solid."

"C'mon, Faceman, you'll have lots of fun. They got lots of pretty girls in Occiasilva," Murdock urged, poking his friend in the side. "Even a princess. Well, she's an _evil_ princess, but they say she's the fairest in the land, and she's still waitin' for Prince Charming…"

Grudgingly, Face raised his hand. "Can't say my vote wasn't bought and paid for. I'll have to call my date for tonight and make up some excuse. You guys owe me one."

That left B.A., who still refused to budge. "I been through enough for this crazy fool in one day. Now he's talkin' about some place that don't even exist. I thought invisible animals were bad enough, man."

"Too bad, mudsucker, you're outvoted anyway," Murdock teased.

"_Grrrrrr…"_

"That's lovely, Sergeant. Shall we?" Hannibal asked lightly in a British stage accent. B.A., still sore at being outnumbered, flicked on the van's headlights and merged into traffic.

xxx

"Would you let me do that?"

"Get off me, man!"

B.A. was grunting with exertion, trying to pry loose the metal covering from the window. Either they'd reinforced it since he'd last been at the VA, or he was getting soft. And he doubted that.

Finally, the grate came loose with a soft metallic _clink_, and B.A. opened the window.

Hannibal's logic had been correct. At this hour, few security measures were in place, and the Team had made it this far without encountering another soul.

The little room was still empty as, one by one, the four of them climbed in. A lone cricket was the loudest sound, and seemed absurdly loud.

"There's no place like home," Murdock whispered, running a longing hand over the walls where a few strings and tacks still remained where the t-shirts had previously been.

"Shut up, fool! You want them to hear us?" B.A. shot back.

"Would you guys just pipe down?" Face said. "We're here to look for talking cartoon squirrels, remember?"

Each of them took a different corner of the room, looking up and down. It didn't take long at all. Other than a pair of smelly tube socks Face found underneath the dresser, nothing was out of order or suspicious in the least. "Well, if Cinderella _was_ here, she probably got turned off by the smell and went back to waiting on her wicked stepsisters," he said, shoving the offending socks back.

"It's the closet, guys," Murdock said, gesturing. "I didn't get to Occiasilva hidin' under the bed."

That space was just as normal-looking as the rest of the room. Lots of clothes, a few pairs of battered high-tops, Murdock's boxed Lego sets. No pine forests, no soaring turrets, and certainly no cheerful little bluebirds.

They stood, staring at the normalcy of it, perhaps waiting for an elf to come strolling out. When no magical visitor came, Hannibal closed the door with a sigh.

"What next, Captain?"

Murdock was crestfallen. He had been there, smelled the woodsmoke, seen the wasted countryside, tasted the cold spring water from Anise's kitchen. It had all been real.

And now, he wondered. There had been times in his life when he couldn't remember his own name, times when he was reduced to a quivering ball of nerves on the floor, staring hopelessly up at white rubber walls. Was this one of those times?

"I dunno, Colonel." He looked down so the others wouldn't see the tears of frustration in his eyes. "Maybe you're right, and it's a special kinda thing, like a Tesseract, or a TARDIS, or…"

"Wait a sec…you guys hear that?" It was Face who spoke. He edged closer to the front of the room.

"I want a full sweep. He can't be far. How did you cretins ever let him escape, after all the precautions we took?"

It was unmistakably the high, cruel voice of Dr. Melina Drake. The clicks of her stiletto heels punctuated her words. She was, judging by the sound, not more than a few doors down.

"What do we do?" Murdock was frantic.

"Go out the window, man," B.A. suggested. "Right back the way we came."

As they reached their entry point, they saw what lay beyond. Several beams of high-intensity light swept in neat arcs, and orderlies were swarming the grounds. It looked as if some student filmmaker had chosen to make a prison escape movie on the grounds of the hospital.

They were trapped. And all the rifles were locked safely in the back of the van.

"Any other brilliant suggestions?" Face glared at Murdock. "Like hopping in the time machine you conveniently have stashed in your underwear drawer?"

Hannibal's right hand strayed to the .45 at his belt. If he had to use it, he would. "In the closet. They always look there last, and if we're lucky, they won't look at all. B.A., can you put that grate back on?"

Luckily, no footprints were visible on the linoleum. As B.A. lifted the heavy metal plate back into place, Face, Murdock and Hannibal piled into the tiny space like three clowns practicing for a contortion act. It had all the size and comfort of the average phone booth.

"Murdock, is that your…"

"Ow! Colonel, sorry 'bout that."

The voices from outside were muffled, but obviously getting closer. Drake's, the loudest of them, was clearly agitated.

"B.A., get in here!" Face whispered harshly. "They'll see you!"

The big man was frozen in place. He was clearly debating whether the prospect of getting caught red-handed by a hospital administrator was worse than being packed like a human sardine into a dark, cramped closet with a crazy man and two others.

The click of heels continued, and stopped right in front of room 214. Drake and her goons had arrived.

"B.A., in the closet!"

"No, man…" He shook his head.

A click. The key was in the door.

"Sergeant, get in here _now_."

And B.A., squeezing his massive bulk into the miniscule remaining space, closed the door behind him just as the light came on in the room.

All at the same thing, several things happened. There was a brilliant flash of silver light, Murdock's clothing and shoes and Legos faded, and the four members of the A-Team felt themselves falling.

"You crazy foooooolllllll…."

"Don't worry, big guy, it won't take long!"

Murdock was right. After maybe ten seconds, the falling was over. Linoleum had been replaced by a soft bed of something organic and mossy-smelling.

"Guys," said Face, gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him, "what just happened?"

It was Murdock who recovered first. He stood in the space which was still cramped, but nowhere nearly as tight as the closet, and brushed his t-shirt clean of the leaves and debris.

"OK, so who's making things up now?"

_To Be Continued_

_ (Author's Note: I deliberately chose not to have a scene with Murdock in Occiasilva first, so let me know if that works or doesn't work. I'm glad so many readers like this story, and any feedback is welcome!)_


	4. Out of the Closet, Into the Fire

**Chapter 4: Out of the Closet, Into the Fire**

"_Where_?"

"Oc-ci-a-sil-va," Murdock said again, patiently sounding out the syllables. "Were you listening to me earlier, or were you too busy being an angry mudsucker?"

"Let's just get out of here, guys? Moss and mud don't go with Armani," suggested Face before B.A. could retort.

After a few moments of untangling limbs and moving upward, the four members of the A-Team were able to climb out of the hollow tree, which had only a bit more wiggle room than Murdock's closet.

"See, I told you." Murdock pouted and folded his arms across his chest. He was the first to pull himself out. "We're not in SoCal anymore, fellas."

Nobody disputed that, not even B.A. The landscape stretched away for miles in every direction with absolutely no trace of modernity. The VA hospital, the suburban neighborhoods surrounding Westwood, the endless parked lines of cars: all were gone, replaced by a scrubby forest under a leaden grey sky.

Hannibal reached for a cigar. If he was bothered at all by this bizarre turn of events, he didn't say so. "I wonder if we get a free welcome from the Lullaby League?" he mused, biting off the tip of his stogie.

Beside him, B.A. scowled. "Ain't funny, man. Think my head hit a rock down in that hole."

Of them, only Murdock seemed the least bit in a good mood. "Well, come on! We should go say hello to these nice folks. It's only polite. Tell you what. I'll go down and let her know we're here, and then I can introduce us. How's that sound?" He grinned, seeing B.A.'s disapproval, Face's raised eyebrow, and Hannibal's calm expression reflected back.

"C'mon, it'll be fun. A real adventure."

As he bounded down the hill, his teammates were speechless. Then, not really knowing what else to do, they followed him.

"This just keeps getting better," Face muttered just loud enough for Hannibal to hear. "I'm not sure _my _head didn't hit a rock. Can you pinch me just in case I'm dreaming?"

Hannibal did. Face closed his eyes. When he opened them, the forest was still there.

"Guess I'm not. Oh, well, when in Rome…"

"Come on, Lieutenant. Might as well give it a chance, right?"Hannibal grinned, flicking away a bit of ash from his cigar.

B.A. brought up the rear, and was already murmuring something under his breath about _the jazz._

XXX

At the bottom of the hill, there was at least some sign of civilization. A stone cottage was built there, its window sashes painted in faded greens and yellows. A curl of smoke issued from the chimney, and the aroma of something rich and hearty cooking hung in the air.

"We're definitely not in California, Hannibal. This place would never pass muster with Zoning or Codes," said Face. "And I think I hear a rooster."

"Actually," said a soft voice, "it's a petitfowl. Only nobles are allowed to own chickens in Occiasilva."

The speaker emerged from the doorway, a large bowl of grey mush in her arms. She looked normal enough, if normal was a frayed patchwork dress, a plain but earnest face crowned with a long braid of mousy brown hair, and gentle eyes. Plenty of bohemian types cultivated that look in Venice or Santa Barbara. Behind the girl, Murdock smiled shyly.

"Sir Murdock has told me so much about you. I didn't think you'd come," said the young woman in a lilting accent. "I'm Anise. You four are the ones who were promised. I know it."

"_Sir_ Murdock?" Face tried hard not to laugh. "Did I miss the knighthood ceremony?"

Hannibal shot him a warning glance. "Miss, I don't mean to put a damper on things, but we're gonna need a little bit of explanation here. Murdock is part of our team, and we do things either together, or not at all. What did you say about a promise?" he asked Anise.

"Oh, that. It's pretty neat stuff; a prophecy and everything. Maybe we should have somethin' to eat first, though?" Murdock offered. "I'm starved."

B.A. and Face both looked to Hannibal. "C'mon, guys. She might even be able to pay us, who knows? After that cattle rancher stiffed us last time, we could sure use it."

"Man's definitely on the jazz," B.A. said as they ducked into the tiny doorway of Anise's cottage after their commanding officer.

XXX

The novelty, and the strange feeling, of Occiasilvan life was not lost on the members of the A-Team. They sat crowded around a rough wooden table, a bowl of woodland stew and a cup of cold tea apiece, trying not to stare at the many eccentric touches-an animal skull, tattered silk banners, books that appeared as if they'd been stolen from the opening credits of a Disney cartoon- in Anise's home. She had gone outside to draw fresh water from the well for more tea.

"Hannibal, honestly. This looks like an interior designer's version of 'Postmodern Smurf,'" Face said, sniffing dubiously at the cup in front of him. "Couldn't this be one big dream sequence? Or maybe we're all sharing in one of Murdock's hallucinations for a change?"

Murdock, who'd been busy tearing his way through a hunk of Anise's brown bread, looked up, scandalized. "Faceman, you know I don't hallucinate anymore. I've been off that for at least six months. Got a piece of paper says so and everything."

"Last time you said that, I wound up in a plane, fool." B.A. glared over his mug of tea.

"That really wasn't my fault, big guy…"

Hannibal had been busy, meanwhile, merely observing his surroundings. His sharp eyes strayed to a piece of parchment underneath a candlestick, its writing spidery and faded. Curious, he picked it up and started reading aloud.

"_She comes to the throne_

_ But lo, is a pretender…"_

Before he could continue, the door opened and brought with it a gust of wind. Anise entered, a young man in brightly colored rags trailing her.

"Sirs, forgive my rudeness. I'd like to introduce Plink, son of Django. He's my friend, and also part of the Occiasilvan Resistance."

"Resistance?" Face asked. "Murdock, you said this was like Disneyland. Why didn't you at least have us bring some weapons? Maybe a bazooka or two?"

"I'm not _really_ Resistance," the Jongleur said as he nodded his head to each of the four visitors. "Anise here just thinks she's going to overthrow the whole bloody kingdom with a few peasants and a sling in her hand."

Unnoticed by Anise and Plink, Hannibal slipped the piece of parchment into his pocket. He invited his host to sit, and she did. "Why don't you start from the beginning. We need to know all the details we can if we're going to help you," he said.

"Would you care for more stew first, sirs?"

"I would," chorused B.A. and Murdock together.

Anise began. "Let's see, where's the best place to start?" she asked aloud, ladling out more of the mutton stew.

XXX

"…and she uses those damned Jackals of hers to rule with an iron fist. None of us can stand against her. Until now," Anise finished. "I believe in my heart that the Gods brought you sirs to us, in order to break her hold over this land once and for all."

She'd spent the last half hour telling a condensed history of her oppressed realm, which had once been ruled by a wise and just king, but had for the last ten years existed in tyranny. The king had suddenly fallen ill, Anise had explained, and his cruel, vain daughter, Malka, had ruled ever since as Lady Regent, using the power of the Royal Guard to keep the people in a state of fear.

"But see, she can't be crowned Queen 'till her father dies and she gets this Emerald of Emeralds she keeps having us Gleamwrights and Quarrymen dig for day and night…"

The weak sunlight had faded, and the two Occiasilvans and four A-Team members were gathered around the fireplace. It was not a cold night, but Face shivered anyway, wishing he had more than a light cashmere blazer to warm him.

"So you're basically expecting us," he indicated his teammates, "to fight off hundreds of trained guys in armor with crossbows who want to kill us? All in service to some evil queen? I think Sister Eleanor read us orphans this story when I was growing up. Aren't there magic beans involved somewhere?" He tried to keep his tone light, and failed.

"Beans? No, it was magical pomegranate seeds that brought you here as champions," Anise explained matter-of-factly, clearing away the empty bowls and tea mugs. "My wish was clear. I needed a team of knights to bring about the downfall of the tyrant Malka. And here you are."

"Magical pomegranate seeds." Face sighed. "That you traded your cow for, right?"

Hannibal and Murdock had been listening to her every word, fascinated. "If you wanted a team, chica, you sure got the best," Murdock said, winking at her and seeing her blush slightly. "Right, Colonel?"

"I agree. We've handled much worse sorts of sleazebags than the ones she's described, most of which had automatic weapons instead of just slings and arrows at their disposal."

Anise and Plink looked every bit as confused as he'd expected. Hannibal tried to explain.

"Since I'm not sure what part of the world this is, or what time frame…"

"It's the tenth year of the reign of Malka, in the land of Occiasilva, Summer of the Falling Clouds," Plink recited.

"That's not what I meant. I guess what might be more helpful to ask is, do you have any guns in this kingdom of yours?"

Hannibal might have said "sporks" and gotten the same reaction. The girl and the Jongleur clearly had no idea what he was talking about. Face tried to explain instead.

"You know. Sticks that go 'boom?' Like cannons, almost?"

"Rifles, pistols, anything like that?" Murdock supplied.

A spark of understanding flared in Plink's green eyes. "Oh, you mean lightning sticks! Only wizards and Necromancers ever use those, and they're dangerous at best. Remember Yarran trying to use one to knock that fat old major off his horse at the Regent's Birthday?"

Anise nodded. "Indeed. Poor Yarran. He was never the same after that."

"So, no guns." Hannibal made a mental note. That meant the Team already had an advantage over whatever sort of goons might be running the show here. All that was needed was a quick trip back through the hollow tree to the world beyond…_their_ world…

"Guns are in the back of the van, man," B.A. said, standing up from the chair which was too small for him. "Wouldn't take but a couple minutes to go back and get 'em."

No one was more astonished than Murdock. "You sayin' you actually wanna stay here and help, big guy?" he asked hopefully.

B.A. growled. "I'm sayin' wherever there's kids in trouble, I'm stayin'." Among the injustices detailed in Anise's tale had been the fact that Occiasilvan peasant children were used as slave labor in the quarries, their small bodies able to go where the larger miners could not. "And I'm also sayin' I'm gonna be well prepared to rearrange these Jackals' teeth."

"Would you really do that, Sir Baracus?" Anise asked him. She'd been especially interested in him during the meal, simply because she'd never seen such a big, powerful man with the exception of Turinnen, the Regent's Enforcer. "For us?"

"I ain't never backed down from a fight, little sister."

"Am I the only one who sees a problem with this scenario?" interrupted Face, and everyone turned to look at him. "Hannibal, we may have four rifles and some grenades, but this evil queen…"

"Malka," said Anise. "And she's only a Regent, not yet crowned Queen."

"Right. Malka has hundreds of soldiers with swords and crossbows. I'm afraid my tailor doesn't have a chainmail line for this fall."

"Oh, good Sir Templeton, no need to worry. Didn't I tell you that one of our Resistance members is a Dwarf, and the nephew of the greatest Armourer in Occiasilva? I'm sure he'd be happy to arrange something for all four of you." Anise smiled. It had been a long time since she'd had any hope at all, and now that she did, her heart was beating fast and hard.

"Right." Hannibal clapped his hands together. "So, guys, we're agreed? We stay here and see it to the end?"

Murdock shot his hand in the air eagerly, and B.A. nodded. Only Face hesitated, but finally raised his own hand.

"What have I got to lose, other than a new cashmere blazer full of arrow holes?"

"Right. If you two will excuse us," Hannibal said to Anise and Plink, "we're going to need to take a short trip back to our world to get our 'lightning sticks,' as you called them. They'll give us a strategic advantage. Did either of you ever read any military history?"

Plink shrugged. Anise spoke hesitantly. "Sir, they don't let us peasant folk read much. I taught myself a bit over the years, though. Like the Battle of Hakestraw?"

The older man nodded, puffing at the last bit of his cigar. "What I'm trying to say is that inferior numbers may not be so much of a problem, if we have superior strategy and better weapons. And we have both on our side."

"Definitely the jazz," B.A. said, not trying to mutter about it anymore.

"Shall we head back to the Real World for a bit, guys?" Hannibal grinned.

Only Murdock was disappointed. "Do we have to, Colonel?"

XXX

"Murdock, get your foot out of my face!"

"Sorry 'bout that…"

"Fool, you steppin' right on my foot!"

For ten minutes, the A-Team had tried different postures within the confines of the hollow oak, all of them more uncomfortable than the last. Had an orderly from the VA spotted them, he might have thought they were engaged in a medieval version of "Twister." As it was, nothing was happening. No silver light appeared, no falling occurred.

"Colonel, are we doing something wrong?" Murdock asked finally, squirming his body into the tiny bit of free space. "I don't remember it working like this at all."

"'Cause you're crazy," B.A. said.

They were about to try another permutation when Anise's voice, from above, stopped them.

"Sirs? Might I have a word with you?" she called.

It was a welcome respite. Gunless and grenade-less, covered in mud and leaves, they climbed out of the hollow and back onto firm ground. Anise was waiting with a pitcher of water and a ladle. She looked ashamed.

"I'm…afraid there was something I didn't tell you," she said at last, looking down at her leather boots.

"Let me guess. We have to slay a fire-breathing dragon on top of everything else?" Face suggested brightly. His blazer, pristine when he had stepped from the world of Southern California to that of Occiasilva, was now torn in several places and streaked with dirt.

"No, I'm afraid dragons have been hunted to extinction in our country. It's something about the magic."

Hannibal looked to Murdock, who shrugged. He clearly didn't know either.

"What is it?"

Anise had thought about something Yarran had said to her when he gave her the enchanted seeds. Something important, which had slipped her mind until now.

"The wizard who made this spell made it under one provision. That the wish be carried out fully and completely," she said, recalling the exact words. "When I made my wish, I wished for Occiasilva to be saved."

"So, we agreed to help save you." Face had a bad idea where this was going, and not only was he without any weapons, he lacked a change of clothes. "So what?"

"So…I'm afraid the gateway, the door through which you sirs came…it's shut until the wish is completely fulfilled..." Even in the darkness, it was obvious Anise was blushing. "Or, I suppose, unless you should fail."

There was a painful silence, and no one spoke. B.A. was the first to raise his voice.

"You know they gonna tow my van, fool," he spat at Murdock. "You gonna pay when we get back!"

XXX

They had returned to Anise's cottage in a dark mood. Hannibal had pulled out his .45, which had exactly one round, which he examined over and over like a talisman in the candlelight. Face was on his fourth mug of tea, sighing over his ruined blazer. Murdock was pretending to be interested in a stuffed furry mammal over the fireplace, and B.A.'s scowl was as deep as the shadows cast by the dying fire.

"I want my van back. Nobody'd have a chance 'gainst us then, man," he said mostly to himself, though he kept throwing Murdock dirty looks across the table.

"Look, big guy, I said I was sorry. It's not every day you fall down the rabbit hole, y'know?"

As they bickered, Anise and Plink watched them from the farthest corner, clearly not sure what to do with the strange quartet of "knights."

"Sirs, is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable? I realize this is not what you're accustomed to, you being from a foreign land…"

Face set down his mug of tea. It was nothing stronger than herbs and honey, but his voice was slurred nonetheless. "That's nice of you, but unless you have a catapult stashed behind those chicken coops of yours…"

"Petitfowl."

"Right." Face stood up, wiping his chin. "We don't have much of a chance against these Renaissance Faire maniacs. Not to mention our fees…"

"Your fee. Sir Murdock had told us that you require payment," Anise said. "That won't be an issue if you save the kingdom."

Now she was speaking his language. He smiled at her. "Didn't you say something earlier about emeralds?"

Plink nodded agreeably. "Oh, yes. The Regent is obsessed with gems of all kinds, particularly emeralds. Her discard stores alone are enough to pay a prince's ransom, though she only accepts the best of the best for herself. I've seen them. Anise, I know you have too."

She had. As a Gleamwright, it was her stock in trade, though she was searched up and down by a Guardsman at the end of each workday to deter stealing. "He's right. Malka keeps them locked away at Ironloch, but I'm sure the Resistance could find them. They're all yours if you help us fight her. All we want is freedom for our people, Sir Templeton."

"I knew there was something about this kingdom I liked. Right, Hannibal?"

Something Face had said earlier had given Hannibal an idea. He chambered his round, and traced the surface of the table with the point of his throwing knife. "Where does this Regent of yours live?" A plan was already taking shape in his mind, but he needed more information.

"Ironloch." Anise shuddered at the word. "A day on foot, half a day on horseback. The Quarries and the mines aren't far from there. That's where most of us work."

"B.A., you and Murdock want to join us over here?" Hannibal called to his men, who were still verbally sparring next to the fireplace.

"What I'm thinking," Hannibal continued, glad to have everyone's attention at last, "is that we can't possibly overwhelm them with force right now. We need armor and weapons, and to get those, we're going to have to get inside this castle; use the element of surprise. Anise, you mentioned a friend of yours, an armorer, who might be able to help. What about him?"

Plink laughed at this. "You think _Knorri _would help? You're joking. He hates Outlanders; you know that."

She shook her head. "He hates Malka a lot more than he hates Outlanders. We have to try, Plink," she said gently.

Hannibal nodded. "So we visit your friend, and see about getting some armor and firepower. In the meantime, can you tell me about any weaknesses this Regent might have? Anything you can tell me might be useful."

The two Occiasilvans looked to one another. Both had dealings with the Court, but had never stopped to think that their oppressors might have any vulnerability. It was Plink who supplied the answer Hannibal had hoped for.

"She's a vain one, loves to look at herself for hours on end," the Jongleur said, "even if she ent that pretty, in all honesty."

"What about a prince? Did you say she was married?"

Anise laughed out loud. "Oh, no, Sir Hannibal."

"No?" Hannibal grinned wickedly. "Any suitors?"

"She rejects them, every one."

"That's because" said Hannibal, "she hasn't found the right one yet. A fine young man from an exotic foreign land, who will sweep her off her feet and charm her with his words and graceful manner."

"But we don't _know_ any princes. I'm not allowed to even speak to nobles without permission," Anise said.

"Nor I," Plink added.

"Yeah, Colonel, you don't just find those at the 1-Hour Prince Shop," agreed Murdock.

Hannibal moved to where Face was draining the last of his tea, and clapped one hand on his shoulder. "Meet… Prince Templeton of the Western Woods. All he needs is a white horse, and maybe the right velvet cape…"

Face was so surprised, a bit of the tea dribbled from his lips. "You've got to be kidding. I'm not a prince, Hannibal. I don't even know how to use a sword," he sputtered.

"Nobody's asking you to use a sword, kid," Hannibal assured him. "Just that wonderful silver tongue of yours. All we need is information."

B.A. giggled. "Looks jus' like a Prince Charming, don't he?"

"This isn't funny, guys. I could get killed, and you're joking about velvet capes? What am I, a spy, or Liberace?"

Murdock winked playfully, draping a long feather he'd found over his friend's shoulder. "Oh, you'll look simply _mahvelous, _darling," he cooed, sounding something like Joan Rivers.

"Anise? You think you could fix His Royal Highness up with the right outfit?" Hannibal asked.

"I have a blue and white pattern in my trunk I was going to make for Plink here, but never got 'round to," she said, "I'll just need his measurements."

"How soon?"

"If I stay up the rest of the evening, maybe by morning?"

"Great. It's settled. You know anybody with a horse?"

Anise smiled. This was getting exciting. "Whenever we need horses, Old Farmer Catchings always allows me to use his. He's my closest neighbor."

While Face and Murdock bantered, and B.A. continued to giggle at the lieutenant's newest role, Hannibal took a long drought of his tea. When he put it down, he was grinning from ear to ear.

"You two better get all the rest you can. We'll be riding out for Ironloch in the morning, and doing some Jackal hunting along the way."

"What about you, Sir Hannibal? Aren't you worried?" Anise was unaccustomed to men behaving in this odd way. No one stood up to Malka's thugs and lived to tell the tale. Was this Outlander extremely brave, or simply mad?

"I wouldn't worry. I'd only be worried if I were one of them."

She nodded. She had decided he was mad after all, but she liked him.

"I'll get that fabric. I've lots of work to do before morning…"

_To Be Continued_

_(Author's Note: I apologize if this chapter was a bit "talky." Every story has one of these. Next chapter is going to be more fun than a Sunday at the Castle AAARGGGGHHH! I welcome all reader comments.)_


	5. A Royal Brawl

**Chapter 5: A Royal Brawl**

"Face, come on out. We've got to hit the road." Hannibal pounded on the door.

From somewhere close by, the ominous sounds of B.A.'s giggling and Murdock's dry chuckles blended together.

"I will, under one condition."

"Okay."

The door to Anise's room opened, and Face revealed himself. "That you guys promise not to laugh," he said weakly.

Just for a moment, nobody did. They were all too stunned to say a word.

Anise hadn't been lying when she said she was a skilled seamstress. She'd taken a few old bolts of fabric from her trunk and, in the space of a night, transformed them into an ensemble fit for any nobleman: a midnight-blue doublet over a flowing long-sleeved shirt and gauntlets, with the emblem of a silver pine tree on the chest. There was a short cape, too, made of coordinating velvet, and a dashing wide-brimmed hat with a white plume.

And tights. Blue velvet tights which left far too little to the imagination.

Murdock wolf-whistled. "Oh, dahling, you look simply _faboo,_" he crooned. "Straight from the runways of Milan, or was it Paree?"

"I've not heard of those places, Sir Murdock," Anise said helpfully, pinning up the last bit of the cape, "but he'll pass for an Occiasilvan royal suitor any day."

It had been a long time since B.A. had been this amused. The big man was giggling so hard, a snort escaped his lips. "So when you gotta give Ken back his getup, Faceman?" he asked, doubling over with laughter.

Face rolled his eyes. "Hannibal, this is ridiculous. Why do I have to play Prince Charming and make an idiot of myself when you guys get stuff that's _not _ripped off from David Bowie's reject pile?" He pulled the hat from his head to hide the flush of anger coming across his cheeks.

The Colonel put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Because, Face, we don't have another great-looking guy with a dazzling smile on the Team. And we need some good intel, fast. If anyone was born to play this role, it was you, kid."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

The other three Team members had simply borrowed from Farmer Catchings and his sons, as well as Plink's spares, for their Occiasilvan-style clothes, hoping to pass for the household staff of a traveling prince. Armor and weapons would just have to wait until they reached the Resistance members. After some discussion, it had been decided that along with "Prince Templeton," there would be a Lord Chamberlain, a royal herald, and a man-at-arms in the royal entourage.

"What about us, good sirs?" Plink had asked. "If we encounter any Guardsmen, they'll be sure to ask why we're not at work. It's a Firstday and all."

Hannibal had provided the answer. "The two of you are commoners. You're humble servants to the Prince, if anyone asks, but I doubt anyone will if we pull this act off right." Anise had explained to him that peasants, much like livestock, could be bought and traded among nobles under Lady Malka's rule, and that nobody gave it a second thought.

Almost as an afterthought, Plink rummaged in his Jongleur's sack, looking for something. When he found what he wanted, he cleared his throat to make an announcement. For one who made his living performing, he had a soft voice and was noticeably self-conscious.

"Sir…I mean, _Prince_ Templeton…I thought perhaps these may be of use? They're a simple Jongleur's props, certainly not real, but they're well-crafted and they'll deceive a casual eye. And appearances are everything in our kingdom."

In one hand was a silver crown set with faux jewels; the other hand held a rapier in a leather sheath. Face accepted both, turning them over and whistling softly. "Not too bad. If you hadn't told me, Plink, I would have guessed this is real silver," he said, putting the crown on his head and buckling the sword to his belt.

"Now he look like the Burger King, man," B.A. said with a snort, which started another round of snickering between himself and Murdock.

Face glared, pulling the rapier free. "Look, I'm supposed to be a prince here. Can I get a little respect?"

"Put it away, kid. The whole point," said Hannibal, "is that you shouldn't _have_ to use that pretty sword. It's more for show. If your royal charm and noble turns of phrase somehow don't work, then we use Plan B." He grinned.

"Which is?"

B.A. was turning over the massive two-bladed axe he'd found in Farmer Catchings' woodshed earlier. The smile on his face matched Hannibal's wicked expression. "It ain't gonna be havin' royal tea parties, sucker."

"That's what I was afraid of."

Murdock had been relatively quiet all morning, but the twinkle of mischief was back in his eyes now. "So, my lords and lady, we tally-ho and sally forth once more unto the breach, wot?"

Anise leaned in close to Hannibal and whispered. "Sir Murdock is…somewhat unusual, isn't he? Is he a wizard too?"

"There's not a single word in English to accurately describe Murdock," Hannibal said, biting off the tip of a fresh cigar. "We usually use 'nuts,' though, in the best possible sense of the word."

"Nuts?" Anise frowned.

"Yeah. Or condiments, depending on what mood he's in."

"I'm not sure I understand, Sir Hannibal."

"Oh, you will. Just give him a few hours to work his magic on you."

"Well, then, shall we?" Face interrupted. "It's a long trip, and I'm already chafing here…"

XXX

The fact that the A-Team was a long way from home became more apparent as the morning wore on. They marched in silence through the misty, dark confines of Swenmere Wood. Gone were the typical Angeleno sounds of low-flying aircraft, horns honking, and pop music blaring from every corner. It was eerily quiet, with only their boots, the horse's hooves, and Face's occasional wisecracks about the incompatibility of velvet and saddle leather providing any sound at all.

The one exception was Murdock doing an abbreviated skip-step and clicking under his breath along the way. Everyone had been ignoring it thus far; the Occiasilvans more out of respect, and Murdock's teammates out of many years of habit. Finally, Face could take it no longer.

"Murdock, what are you doing?"

"Why, matching my steed's pace with yours, my lord," he replied as if this explained everything.

"Of course you are."

B.A., bringing up the rear guard, shook his head. "You don't stop this 'invisible animal' rap, I'm gonna send that invisible horse to the invisible glue factory."

Murdock continued ahead, chastened slightly, and then began to sing in a warbling tenor:

_Bravely bold Prince Faceman, rode forth from Westwood fair,  
He was not afraid to die, oh, Brave Prince Faceman,  
He was not at all afraid to be killed in nasty ways  
Brave, brave, brave, brave Prince Faceman…_

"Shut up, fool! You think a buncha cute little rabbits gonna come out, start singin' with you?" B.A. shouted as Murdock scrambled just out of his reach.

"I'm a herald, big guy! Just doin' my job!"

Anise and Plink were smiling in spite of themselves. "Sir Murdock would make a fine Jongleur," said Plink to Hannibal. "He sings with the voice of a lark."

"And you're sure he's no wizard?"

"I've known him for fifteen years. He does a lot of magical things, but I've never seen him turn a man into a newt or anything like that, if that's what you're asking," Hannibal said after some thought. Anise's question had reminded him of something else that had been on his mind. "You mentioned having a true wizard in your Resistance. What can you tell me about him?"

Plink chuckled. "You'd better take that one, love. You know Yarran better than I do."

"There's so much to tell," Anise said. "Most of the Lady Regent's court think of him as a charlatan, an old man with not much sense and too much lip. But he worked out some sort of agreement with Ironloch. Grows some rare herbs in his garden, he does, and as long as he pays his tributes, they leave him be."

"And what do you think of him?" Hannibal pressed. He was looking for any advantage they might be able to use in what was sure to be a fight, and if these two had an actual wizard on their side…

She laughed nervously."Yarran's the father I never had. I think the world of him. Others say he's mad, it's true. But I think he's brilliant." A blush had crept into Anise's cheeks.

"What sort of spells does he know?"

Before Anise could answer, Murdock and his "horse" galloped alongside them, the newly appointed royal herald trembling either with fear or indignation. "Lord Chamberlain, that big mudsucker and I have a quarrel," he said in his affected, Pythonesque accent.

Hannibal raised one eyebrow. "What is it, Captain?"

"He says Dingo here," Murdock reached down to where his horse's neck might be, patting the air, "is a mere figment of my imagination."

Through many years together, Hannibal was all too familiar with Murdock's invisible menagerie. Plink and Anise, however, were both utterly confused. Finally, the girl asked the question both of them were dying to ask.

"Sir Murdock, are you quite well?" She tried to sound as respectful as possible.

"Carry on, Captain. Just give 'Dingo' a wide berth from our man-at-arms, won't you?" Hannibal said lightly as Murdock trotted off again.

"See, what did I tell you?" he said to the two Occiasilvans, who were still staring in awe at the eccentric "knight." "Don't worry…he can more than hold his own in a fight, and that mind of his is sharper than a bear trap. He's just a little different."

The real horse, which Face was still riding, pranced beside them. "Hannibal, next time we visit a medieval kingdom, remind me to pack a codpiece," he said. "No prince should have to deal with this."

"If you'd allow me, sir, I'd be happy to make you more comfortable," Anise offered.

"I was just kidding." Face winced. "Thanks for the offer, though." If it weren't for the fact that Anise dressed like an extra from a low-budget production of _Fiddler on the Roof, _he might have tried the flirting approach.

"What time is it getting to be, anyway?" asked Face, feeling his stomach growl. The watch he'd been wearing had stopped upon his arrival to Occiasilva, and it was impossible to judge how high the sun was through the thick forest cover.

"It's middle-hour, at least," Plink said. He'd pulled some of his Jongleur's wooden balls from his satchel and begun to juggle them to pass the time. He was quite good. "But we won't reach the village for at least another two hours, sir."

Someone else's stomach rumbled. The prospect of another few hours on the road, without rest, wasn't appealing.

"Is there anywhere around here where we might stop to get something to eat, go over the plan again?" Hannibal asked the Occiasilvans.

Plink was so taken aback, he dropped the balls he was juggling. "Before we reach the village? Only the Vultures' Nest, good sir. Maybe half a league east of here. But we," he indicated himself and Anise, "never go there."

"Why not?"

"For one thing," said Anise, "it's a tavern for nobles and Jackals only. We'd be thrown out on our ears."

Hannibal smiled broadly. "That may have been in the past, but now, you're traveling with royalty. Shouldn't be a problem." He stopped, seeing their nervous expressions. "Or is there something else you're not telling me?"

"It's not a pleasant sight, Sir Hannibal. In fact, it's a wretched hive of scum and villainy," Anise admitted, as if she herself were responsible for the tavern's bad reputation.

"Long as they got somethin' decent to eat, man, I ain't worried about trouble," B.A. said, joining them. All morning, he'd been carefully honing the edges of the axe until they were wickedly sharp. He hefted the weapon across his back into the leather harness he'd made for it. "You jus' show the way, and I got your back."

Astride the horse, Face nodded. "Anything to get out of this saddle. Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll have fettucini Alfredo and Perrier as their daily special."

"As long as they have suitable accommodation for Dingo."

"Aw, shut up, fool!"

XXX

The Vultures' Nest more than lived up to its name. It was a run-down, dingy place in the middle of a clearing. The only patrons seemed to be Royal Guardsmen in various states of shabbiness and drunkenness. A handful of mangy dogs fought for scraps outside, and several nervous-looking horses were tethered to a rail.

"You two," Hannibal said to Anise and Plink as they approached, "look after the horses. Let us do the talking."

Anise shuddered. Sending Outlanders into the midst of this place was no laughing matter. "As you wish, sir, but what will you be doing?"

He shrugged casually. "What you hired us to do. These types of places are great if you want information. Bartenders, especially."

Face staggered towards them, lurching and bow-legged after dismounting. "And remember, it's 'Prince Templeton' if anybody asks, not 'Prince Faceman,' all right?" he said, making a thumb gesture toward where Murdock stood giving "Dingo" an invisible sugar lump. "That's just a nickname."

"Be careful, sirs," Plink said, taking the horse's reins and looking worried. "And call if you should need our services."

"Shouldn't take long. You two just rest, and get that horse…and Dingo… watered and fed." Hannibal nodded to his clients. "We've done this a hundred times. Just trust us and don't worry."

As Hannibal and his men disappeared into the dark confines of the tavern, Anise sighed deeply, cupping her face in her hands.

"Plink, you really think they'll get out of there without anything bad happening?"

He unsaddled Face's horse and shrugged. "Let's give them a chance. Maybe they really are noble knights wherever it is they come from. I sense they are true warriors, and you know as well as I that most of the Guardsmen who come here are a bunch of ruddy drunks. "

"That's what worries me. Grog and bored Guardsmen never mix well…"

XXX

The interior of the Vultures' Nest was even more disreputable than its façade. It smelled of rotgut liquor, sweat, wet dogs and horses. A half dozen Royal Guardsmen of lower rank and one officer, judging by his insignia and slightly less stained uniform, were crowded around a single table, pawing at the one barmaid on duty and laughing raucously. As the A-Team entered, the bartender perked up, glancing them up and down. He started whispering to a big man who might have been a bouncer.

"Charming, isn't it?" Hannibal commented in his lightest British tones. "I'm sure if we added a few foxhunting prints and some designer wallpaper, it would be heavenly."

"Ain't the words I'd use, man," B.A. said, sizing up the bartender's huge companion. "Place is a dive."

Murdock sniffed at the air. "Smells like a 1654 Burgundy. Not a good year, chaps."

"Just stay alert, guys. We're just here to get information," Hannibal said in his usual voice, being sure to keep it low. He approached the bar and smiled. "What, ho, sirrah," he greeted the two men in a booming voice straight from the set of _Robin Hood and His Undead Merry Men. _"What libations have you?"

The bartender, and his bouncer, were not amused. The smaller man stared, cockeyed, at the strange visitor. "G'day to you too. We only gots grog, or ale if y'fancy," he said, sounding bored.

Hannibal flipped him one of the silver coins Plink had provided, which was, like the crown, only a very good forgery. "We'll have some of your finest grog. And, if you should have it, a mug of milk."

While the man went to pouring the drinks, Face, who'd been trying to stay invisible as best he could behind his cape, ignored the curious stares of the Guardsmen at the far table. "Hannibal, I hate to say this, but I have to, you know, find a suitable throne? I've been on a horse all morning."

"You didn't go before we left the Seven Dwarfs' cottage, Faceman?" Murdock said, poking his friend in the chest.

"That's not funny." He was feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute, the drunken men's stares burning into his back. Anise hadn't been wrong about this place and its air of unsavoriness.

"Suit yourself," Hannibal said, toasting and taking a swig of the dark liquid in the tankard he was given. "Just remember, keep that sword of yours at hand. The privies here aren't likely to have nice men in tuxedos giving out towels and mints."

"Right." Face didn't really need to use the privy, but, like his escape from Dr. Drake, it was a good way to politely excuse himself. "If I'm not back in a few minutes, assume the worst." And he went back outside.

B.A. giggled. He was pleasantly surprised to see that the barkeep did indeed have milk on hand. He drank deeply, the creamy liquid leaving a milk mustache behind. "Good milk they got here," he said.

"Big guy, you got a…I mean…" Murdock pointed.

"I got a what, fool?"

"Never mind that. Stand ready," Hannibal murmured. The leader of the Guardsmen, the same corporal who'd harassed Anise and Plink two days prior, was approaching. Apparently the newcomers interested him more than his drink and lechery. He plopped down in the stool next to B.A., sloshing grog all over his jackal's head tabard. A loud belch escaped the man's lips.

He swept the tankards off the bar, then pretended to look shocked. "Sorry 'bout that. Didn't anybody tell you this place's off limits to Outlanders?" Behind him, his squad chuckled in agreement.

"If we see any, we'll surely let them know," Hannibal said lightly, holding B.A. back with one arm and sipping lightly at the one remaining mug with the other. "We're but a humble traveling royal party on the road to Ironloch, good sir, so you'll kindly display better manners."

Murdock spoke up, his courage, and perhaps his insanity, plucked up by the strong liquor. "What sort of man are you, that you don't bow in the presence of royalty? Can't you smell the lingering remnants of his princely scent? Why, sirrah, it's the aroma of one who can afford to bathe more than once a year…"

"As my herald says," Hannibal said, pulling on the black leather gloves he'd stashed in his hip pouch, "we are indeed traveling with a prince, Templeton of the Western Wood, and he doesn't take kindly to insults. But maybe we'll let your lack of good graces slide this once. Would you care to buy us another round?"

The corporal was either too stupid or too drunk to see the sense in Hannibal's request. He took the mug containing B.A.'s milk and dumped it onto the dirt floor.

"Ent no royals in Occiasilva but Lady Malka of the Emerald Throne, friend," the big man said, his words slurry with drink. "So take yer royal backsides right on out 'fore we have to get all nasty like."

B.A. was on his feet, axe drawn. "Nobody messes with my milk, sucker!"

"Easy, B.A." Hannibal's gloves were on, and his eyes gleamed with anticipation. "I must ask the good man here just one thing." He turned to the corporal. "I'm unaccustomed to the traditions of Occiasilva. If one has a quarrel with a man, does he challenge him to a duel? Or a gauntlet, perhaps?"

The Jackal spat on the floor. "You bloody kidding? We don't do none of that sissy stuff; we 'ave it out like real men."

Hannibal looked to B.A., who nodded. "Oh. I'm glad to hear it, because that's just the way we prefer it." He threw a hard right hook at the unprepared corporal, who staggered backward, stunned.

Several things happened all at once. The remaining Guardsmen, enraged, all charged toward the A-Team, as quickly as their drunkenness would allow. B.A., not even needing his axe, lifted one of them, and then another, over the bar to land in a heap behind. Hannibal socked the nearest one in the jaw, and Murdock, looking for a weapon, picked up the first projectile he could lay his hands on, which happened to be a live chicken which had strayed inside. In a few moments, and a flurry of well-placed punches and kicks, the group of Jackals had been reduced from a medieval verson of a biker gang to a sad chorus of whimpering.

At the door of the tavern stood Face, who had apparently finished his visit to the privy. "I'm not even gone five minutes, and you guys wreck the place," he said, shaking his head and surveying the damage. "I hope they have insurance."

"Faceman, look out!"

In the scuffle, they'd all but forgotten about the bouncer. He lunged, roaring like a maddened ogre. Face, his instincts well-honed, started to draw his sword, but B.A. was quicker. He stepped between the "prince" and the attacker, axe in hand. The man was clearly not a trained fighter. One swing of the flat axe blade to the side of his head, and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

"Thanks," Face gasped, still astonished at what had just happened. "I owe you one, B.A."

"If I'm gonna be a man-at-arms, I better know what I'm doin'."

The only man left standing, aside from the four Outlanders, was the bartender. He looked as if he wanted to run as fast as he could away from the chaotic scene. On the other hand, Hannibal's drawn throwing knife, pointed squarely at his forehead, seemed to convince him otherwise.

"All right, what d'you want? I'm a simple workin' man. Drinks are on me, all you like," he babbled, pouring more grog with shaky hands.

Hannibal lowered the knife. He'd been right. The man was a coward, and would be eager to talk now that he knew he was outclassed. "First of all, we need to know the quickest route to Castle Ironloch," said Hannibal. "You see, His Royal Highness here intends to come calling on your princess, and he'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him lies."

The barman pointed with shaky fingers. "Take the Hunters' Path north by northeast. Not more than half a day, less if you're on horseback, I think."

Face, meanwhile, was sniffing at the grog. He recoiled. "And this princess of yours? Is she really as beautiful as they all say?"

"Yer Highness, I've only ever seen her from a distance. All the Jack…I mean, Guardsmen always talk about 'er."

The corporal Hannibal had knocked out was starting to come to on the floor. Hannibal grabbed the man by his chainmail coif and dragged him to his feet. "Is that true?"

A low groan escaped the man's lips. "Eh…what?"

"What he's asking is whether the lady fair in the tower is the fairest in all the land," Murdock said in a plummy tone.

He nodded. "She's fair. Fair enough. Wouldjer just let me go?"

"Do us a favor. Let Lady Malka know to expect a suitor in the very near future. And tell her he appreciates the value of good manners."

"Oh, and I wouldn't mind a lavender bath waiting for me once I arrive," added Face.

As soon as Hannibal dropped him, the corporal staggered out of the room, not even bothering to take his men with him. From outside, they heard the hoofbeats of a horse as it galloped away.

"You just wanna let him go like that, Hannibal?" B.A. asked, astonished.

Hannibal grinned. "Why wait a whole day to announce our arrival when we can have him do it for us on a fast horse? And if I read him right, he'll tell it ten times worse than it actually was. You ever remember hearing that story about the Brave Little Tailor?"

"You been drinkin' too much of that grog."

"Have I really?" Hannibal pretended to be shocked.

"C'mon, mudsucker, live a little. It'll grow some hair on that chest of yours," Murdock suggested.

"I got enough hair already in all the right places, fool."

Anise and Plink rushed in from outside. They were out of breath and looked distressed. "Sir Hannibal, that was Corporal Horath! He's sure to tell all Ironloch about…" Anise stopped, seeing the remaining Jackals strewn around the barroom in various states of consciousness. "Sweet Equestra, what happened in here?" She whistled softly.

"I'd guess," said Plink, "that my suspicions were right." He turned to Hannibal, newfound admiration in his eyes. "Are you really great warriors? Will you honestly help us overthrow the tyrant once and for all?"

Hannibal only smiled. "Does a medieval privy smell bad?"

Behind him, Face groaned. "You just had to remind me, didn't you?"

"Hey, kid, I gave you fair warning."

B.A. was happily drinking the replacement mug of milk the barman had poured him. "You hired us to help you. That's jus' what we gonna do."

"We are the A-Team. Our favorite colors are black, red and chartreuse. Our quest is to fight injustice wherever it exists, and stay on the jazz at all times," Murdock said with a straight face.

"The…jazz?" Plink was confused, as much as Anise had been about Murdock's mental state earlier. "And what might that be, sir?"

"It's impossible to explain in a nutshell," Face said, pulling up a barstool, "but then again, you get a pretty good idea from this little scene here."

B.A. pounded on the bar. The little bartender was positively quivering now.

"You still ain't given us any food. We got a hungry royal entourage here, sucker."

As the poor man tripped over himself to locate something edible, Hannibal grinned.

"You can't say you're not getting your money's worth, kids. And this is just an appetizer."

_To Be Continued_

(_Author's Note: We'll finally meet the heavies in the next chapter. I apologize if this chapter was a little too Monty Python-ish…I couldn't help myself!)_


	6. To Catch a Princess

**Chapter 6: To Catch a Princess**

Lady Malka's face was a study in regal coolness. That always happened right before she got angry.

"Idiot!" she spat, lashing out with one long-taloned hand and scratching the cheek of the Jackal corporal. "Do I pay you worthless lumps to protect my kingdom or to get drunk and chase tavern girls, then lose a fight to a handful of peasants?"

If the hapless man had been groveling any more, he might have been kissing the marble floor. "Yer Exaltedness…I mean, yer Majesty, it won't happen again," he whimpered.

She had been in a bad mood even before this unwelcome interruption. The most important part of her day…meeting with the Gleamwrights' Guild and silversmiths to pick out a new emerald for a pendant setting…and now this. The man was clearly a drunk and a coward; a poor excuse for a human being, much less a Royal Guardsman.

Though Malka's expression betrayed nothing, she was privately worried for the first time in many years. This pitiful little peasant "Resistance," which she'd scorned in the beginning, was starting to grow in strength. If they, and their bards and Jongleurs, got word that her Jackals could be defeated like straw men, there would be trouble. And they'd only increase in numbers. She mentally made note of it, and smiled sweetly at the still-groveling Jackal.

"What would you say, Corporal Horath, if I offered you a second chance?" she asked.

It took a moment for Horath to realize he wasn't being punished. He nodded frantically. "Of course, yer Worshipfulness. I won't disappoint you."

"Very well." Malka nodded her head. "Bring me the men responsible, and you shall keep your position," she said in her lowest, most dangerous voice.

"Thank you, oh, thank you, Lady," he babbled, bowing deeply.

"Now get out," Malka said, gesturing with her scepter as if bored. She sighed. Good help was so hard to find.

As the door closed behind Horath, a shadow detached itself from the heavy velvet draperies and slinked toward the throne. Malka, ever alert for assassins, drew the tiny but razor-keen dagger she wore in her headdress, but put it away when she saw the figure was no threat.

"Sandr, stop doing that. I'm not getting any younger," she said.

Viscount Orsandr smirked. "A thousand apologies, Lady," he replied smoothly, taking her hand and kissing it. "I only thought you wanted me to keep you ever at the ready."

"Yes. I did say that." She studied him. He was nine years her senior, still lean and wiry in the manner of a wolf in winter, his face bearded and handsome. If he'd been a prince, maybe she'd have considered taking him as her consort. As it was, he certainly served her in many ways: spy, assassin, confidante. He'd also rightly earned his reputation as the best sword money could buy in Occiasilva. But since he wasn't a prince, it was out of the question. She was Lady Regent…and would soon enough be Queen…but even she was still limited by the ancient rules of the kingdom.

"How else might I serve Your Ladyship?" Sandr continued, kissing her wrist now.

Malka thought about it. With this troubling new bit of news, she could use him now more than ever.

"You heard what that buffoon said. Apparently someone thinks it's good business to make my Jackals look like fools," she said, standing up from her throne. "I can't have that kind of resistance once I'm Queen."

"Of course you can't, Lady," agreed the assassin.

"Find the ones responsible," said Malka, "and eliminate them. And Sandr?"

"Your Majesty?"

She smiled, but there was absolutely no warmth in her expression. "Do try not to make a mess of things. You know how I feel about blood."

He left the room as quietly as he'd entered it. He was the best at what he did, and she had no doubt he would succeed in his mission. But Malka's thoughts were still troubled, and she went back to what she'd said to Sandr. _I'm not getting any younger._

Though still beautiful, the truth was she wasn't a spring rosebud anymore. The severe headdress she wore helped to minimize the first signs of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, and a full staff of ladies-in-waiting primped and powdered her every morning to keep her looking her best. For now, the approach of middle age was kept at bay.

Malka sighed, reaching for the emerald-encrusted hand mirror at her waist. She looked back at her reflection. As of yet, no courting prince from any kingdom, and there had been many, had been worthy of her beauty and charm. Somewhere, someday, there had to be one. She could not rule as Queen forever, and in order to have an heir, she would need a Prince Consort. The thought of it disturbed and excited her all at once.

_Well, if I find one and then, once I have my heir, I get tired of him, there's always Sandr. He's the finest swordsman in the kingdom in more than one way…_

xxx

"Hannibal, I blame you if I'm never able to walk straight again. I'm dying up here, and all you can think of is your plan?" Face complained.

"_You're_ part of the plan, Your Highness," the Colonel replied. "You might say you're the linchpin of the whole thing. Just hold your codpiece; I think we're almost there."

"I don't have a codpiece, remember?"

Hannibal grinned. "Just thought I'd remind you."

The heat of the late afternoon was oppressive, even with the low cloud cover. Anise explained that it was the hottest time of year in her country, but that made no difference for peasant folk. They worked long, hard hours in the mines or fields: heat or cold, rain or shine, Jackal overseers always ready to spur them on with leather whips as needed.

"Even them kids?" B.A. asked. When Anise had told him 'yes,' the big man was even more determined to help set the kingdom free. He'd barely spoken since then, as if he were formulating a plan of his own, more than likely involving his fists and the Jackals' jaws.

Everyone was slightly road-weary after a full afternoon marching to Ironloch. As they rounded the bend and looked down into the broad valley below, Face reined his horse in and everyone else, Murdock and Dingo included, stopped too.

"Looks just like Disneyland Moscow, doesn't it?" Hannibal commented jovially.

The dominant feature was the castle itself, a massive three-towered building of grey stone set into the base of a mountainside. The surrounding countryside was a sad-looking collection of abandoned quarries, scrubby rolling hills, and tiny shacks and cottages. It almost looked as if the peasant dwellings were in thrall to the majesty of Ironloch.

"That's it," Plink said with a sigh. "That's where most of us work, sirs, and where a good many of us die. Not a pretty sight, is it?"

"How did it wind up like this? Looks like this used to be good farm country," Face observed, dismounting the white horse and rubbing gingerly at his aching thighs.

Anise pointed to the keep. "It was all farm and pastureland, during the old king's reign. Malka, though?" She laughed without humor. "That horrible daughter of a Harpy only cares for her jewels. Nobody's grown maize or barley here for years, which is why most of us are starving. She had all the fields quarried a long time ago, and now she's cutting deeper and deeper into the mountains. That's why she needs the children," she said, seeing B.A.'s deep scowl.

"And so you started your Resistance." Hannibal lit a fresh cigar; his supplies were rapidly dwindling and he had no idea what he'd do when he ran out of El Capitans. Maybe take up a hickory pipe. "You had to do something about these slimeballs trying to push you around. And we're going to help turn their royal thrones right upside down for them."

Having spent a whole day in Hannibal's charismatic presence, Plink had developed a definite appreciation for the way this Outlander, along with his teammates, thought. He wasn't like most Occiasilvan commoners; content to blindly do whatever they were told. This man was fiery, passionate, a true leader. The Jongleur was already composing a ballad about him in his head. Not only that, the remaining doubts he'd had about Anise and the Resistance were starting to fade away.

"So," he cleared his throat, and tried a bit of the Outlander's jargon on for size, "what's the plan, Sir Hannibal?"

"I hope most of it involves me with my two feet firmly on the ground," Face said in between swigs from his canteen. "I'm done with all things equine right now."

"Oh, but Dingo isn't done with _you_, Prince Faceman," cooed Murdock, letting his invisible horse off the rein to graze.

B.A. growled. "I'm done with you and your invisible talking pets, fool," he said threateningly.

"I never said Dingo _talked_, O Baracan One."

Hannibal, ignoring their squabbles, grabbed a sharp stick and started tracing a map of the castle and the surrounding valley in the dirt. "Anise, Plink, does your Resistance have any kind of central meeting location? We'll need one if my plan is going to work properly."

The two were thrilled to be included in the discussion. Anise spoke first. "Not as such, good sir. You see, we are a small Resistance, at least right now, and we can never meet in the same place twice. If we were ever discovered…"

"…the Jackals would have our bones for stew," Plink finished for her. "Or else we'd be left to rot in the dungeons at Ironloch."

The Outlander smiled broadly, shocking both of them. He didn't appear to be the least bit scared off by this possible threat. In fact, if they had to guess, they might have thought he was excited about it.

"Sounds like the kind of sleazebags we eat on rye with a nice caper garnish, huh, guys?"

"Maybe you, Hannibal." Face agreed, enjoying his time out of the saddle. "Me? I prefer a pumpernickel and a nice gourmet mayonnaise."

"So, is that _the jazz_?" Plink whispered to B.A.

"That's it, man. Pretty bad, ain't it?" B.A. couldn't help but smile a little at Hannibal's obvious enthusiasm.

"So, back to this plan, now that we've established who we're up against." The Colonel traced. "We're up here, on this ridge. Prince Charming here is going to be our Trojan Horse…"

Face groaned. "You _had_ to mention horses?"

"…and keep the lovely princess occupied in her tower while we get a sizable force together and spread the word. How many Resistance members can you count on, right now?"

"Fourteen. Fifteen, if you count Yarran…"

"Your wizard friend?"

Anise nodded. "He's…a little eccentric, Sir Hannibal. I'm still unsure whether he joined the Resistance for the saving Occiasilva part, or the composing epic poetry part."

"Sounds like my kind of _compadre_," said Murdock, who was in the process of brushing Dingo down and giving him an invisible bucket of oats.

"Sounds like we got one too many crazy fools on this case," B.A. added under his breath.

Looking at his hand-scratched map, which was now fairly detailed, Hannibal put his stick where the center of the little village was. "We need a central location where we can round up some support. We also need somewhere that's easily defended, and hopefully might have some spare parts lying around that we can weaponize. Any ideas?"

Plink provided the answer. "Neylande's Smithy, perhaps, sir? It's large enough to hold maybe thirty of us, and he and his wife are both Resistance members."

"That's perfect. Now, these Jackals are going to be looking for us after what we did back there, so we're going to have to split up. The dashing Prince Templeton will head to the castle, with his faithful herald at his side. He's got to make an impressive entrance so he can sweep this princess right off her feet."

Face had been listening intently, but now felt the need to interrupt. "Don't you think she's going to want my head and not my heart? It was my entourage that beat up her medieval Beagle Boys, you know. I won't be able to get within a mile of that place, Hannibal."

Hannibal nodded. He was one step ahead already. "That's why," he gestured to Murdock, and Plink as well, "you go in with a song. Makes everyone forget really quickly. Besides, everybody loves a good entertainer."

The young Jongleur puffed out his chest with pride. A few days ago, he'd been laid-up, miserable, and hopeless. Now, this Outlander, a noble, was not only coming up with ways to set Occiasilva free, but including mere commoners in his plans. Plink was positively grinning. "Sir Hannibal, I'll not fail you. Between Sir Murdock and myself, I'm sure we'll have all the Jackals acting like trained puppies before long," he said.

"Amen, brother," Murdock agreed in the thick drawl of a revivalist preacher. "It's the Travelin' Prince Faceman Salvation Roadshow, sing Hosanna! Brother Dingo, nod your head and gimme a Hallelujah!"

B.A.'s fingers had wandered to his axe handle. "You don't get outta here with your jibber-jabber quick, I'm gonna cut you down to size. Got it?"

"What if we become separated?" Anise asked with concern. To her, the plan sounded as if it would work, but these were Outlanders. They didn't know the land, and its many dangers, the way she and Plink did, and she still didn't think they saw the very real threat of getting caught. "How will we get back together again? Or what if one of us is captured?"

Gently, B.A. placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't you worry. Two of us 'gainst twenty of them ain't no contest. We know what we're doin', little sister. 'Sides, you comin' with me and Hannibal."

"I am?"

"Of course," Hannibal told her. "We can't have a Resistance meeting without the leader of the Resistance. Besides, you'll want to introduce us to all your friends so we can sell them our fine line of Amway products, right?"

Anise smiled in spite of herself. So many things about these strange visitors she still didn't understand, but one thing was undeniable. Their enthusiasm, and their sense of humor in the face of danger, was contagious. If that was what they cryptically kept referring to as _the jazz_, well, she wanted to learn all she could.

"Thank you, sirs. I'm honored." She curtsied.

"We'll plan on meeting back on this hill by tomorrow morning, then…unless Prince Templeton of the Western Wood decides he wants to get to know the princess a little better," Hannibal said, wiping out the map in the dirt with his boot. "Just use the flag codes if get in a tight spot, or better, send Murdock and his trusty steed Dingo."

"While I'm wooing the fair lady, and Murdock is righting wrongs and singing songs," Face asked, "what are you guys going to be doing?"

"Just guess, man," B.A. said with a wink as he hefted the axe across one shoulder. "Ain't gonna be sellin' Girl Scout Cookies."

The sunlight was fading behind the clouds now. Time was wasting.

"Good luck, Your Highness," Hannibal called to his lieutenant as Face, with a good deal of effort, finally remounted his horse. "And try to get me as much intel as possible…up to and including the size of Lady Malka's…"

"Vast tracts of land?" Face's smile was dazzling, and could have lit up the whole sad-looking valley. "Hannibal, how could I possibly let you down there?"

Xxx

"Make way for Prince Templeton! Glorious is his prowess in battle, his skill with the sword, and his shampoo-commercial quality poofy hair!" Murdock brayed, as if he were the grand marshal for the world's most demented version of the Rose Bowl Parade.

"Murdock, is that going a bit too far?" Face didn't know whether to be amused or embarrassed.

At his side, Plink was strumming at his lute. "In Occiasilva, sir, the louder you are, usually the easier it is to have your voice heard." He began to play a simple melody. "It also makes people ask fewer questions, since they'll just assume you're a noble."

People were obviously taking note. The commoners simply scurried out of the way, and the merchants and minor nobles made the appropriate bows or curtsies as they made their way through the more upscale streets nearer to the castle. Many of the women, a few of them not so young, giggled and blushed as the handsome stranger rode by.

"You see?" Plink said. "It's all in the presentation, isn't it? Jongleur's trick."

The one thing that was noticeably absent, aside from any inhibition on Murdock's part, was the soldiers. They had to be there; so where were they?

"Plink, does this castle have any security, or am I supposed to just win them over with my blue velvet manliness and charm?" he asked under his breath, nodding politely to a pair of identical girls in peach satin dresses and seeing them sigh.

Thankfully, Murdock gave him the answer. "They're around, Faceman, just not on the attack," he told his friend in an equally low voice. "Don't think they're used to anybody goin' on the offensive, so you just keep your royal heinie where it is. They're not gonna sic a prince."

"Not even for having atrocious fashion sense?"

The main gatehouse of Ironloch loomed. Here, there was definitely a strong presence of guards. An entire platoon, by the looks of things, all armed with swords and long, wicked-looking halberds. Face's horse, sensing the danger, stamped and snorted underneath its rider. Hannibal's plan had involved the three of them getting within the castle walls. How exactly they were going to do it, the colonel had not said. The three men briefly conferred.

"Any bright ideas?" Face asked. "I can talk all I want, but if those guys are in a bad mood, they're gonna cut me up, cast lots for my tights, then use me for chum to feed whatever's in that moat."

Plink's eyes danced. "Leave it to me, Your Highness. Sir Murdock, would you come with me? And Prince Templeton, stay a ways back. That gate will be open before you can say 'pinfeathers.'"

Neither Face nor Murdock knew what the Jongleur was up to, but so far, he'd been good as his word. In this country where so many were living under an iron fist, people were indeed starved for entertainment. Jackals were no exception.

"Faceman, I think he's onto somethin' here," Murdock agreed, his own eyes sparkling with mischief. "You think a tenor or an operatic baritone for this one?"

"Whatever gets us inside…"

Their Occiasilvan companion strolled up to the burly guards as if he were on his way to a picnic. "Good morrow, sirs! Might I interested you in a simple gambol, a song, perhaps?"

"Ain't morrow, it's evenin' now," the closest Jackal spat. "Wot's wit' the lad on the horse, anyway?"

But Plink was already moving, executing a flawless series of acrobatic tumbles and then springing once more to his feet. "I'm a humble Jongleur, sirs. I only know to entertain and to tell jokes. My master, however, is here for much grander things." He strummed the lute as Murdock began to improvise a set of lyrics to the melody. A whole verse was devoted to Face's supposed collection of velvet tights.

The guards, in spite of themselves, were laughing and clapping along to the lively tune. And, Face saw, they'd already abandoned their weapons. He smiled. This was going to be a lot easier than it looked.

When Murdock and Plink finished their duet, they received a hearty round of applause. "Jongleurs! Ain't had one regular since Her Ladyship got angry with the last one."

Neither man knew quite what to say to this. It certainly fit what they already knew of the Princess Regent's reputation. "I wonder, good sir, if my steed might find suitable accommodation within the walls of your keep. I do hear that this establishment is on the list of the Triple-Alpha Guide's Four-Diamond list," Murdock said in his most uppercrust British way.

It took a moment for the slow wits of the Jackals to catch up, but once they did, they roared with laughter. "E's a good one, 'e is. And 'is friend there," the watch captain said, pointing to Plink. "Lady Regent's going to love the two of you chaps."

Murdock's comment had made Plink think of something else in his Jongleur's sack. Something he never showed anyone…but his entertainer's instinct was telling him now was precisely the right time. It was, like everything else he owned, only a fake, but it was a real piece of work. He flicked his hand, and the object appeared in one hand like magic.

"We also, on behalf of our lord and master, Prince Templeton of the Western Wood, bring a gift for Her Ladyship," the Jongleur said, bowing low and holding out his arm.

The guards' eyes widened. In his palm was an emerald the size of a robin's egg, with no visible flaws. Even Murdock had to hold down his surprise. If there was anything that could have guaranteed them absolute safe passage into Ironloch, this was it.

"Yer master really is a prince, then?" another guard asked, eyeing Face's legwear suspiciously.

"Look at him," interjected Murdock. "Is he not the very model of a modern major general?"

"Eh?"

"Aw, forget it."

Sensing his opportunity, and a little annoyed at having others do the talking for him, Face nudged the horse forward. The guards swallowed hard.

"If you don't mind, gentlemen," he said in the voice that always convinced even the hardest cases, "I'm weary and exhausted, and I've come to court your princess. Your hospitality is legendary, as is her beauty." He had no idea if any of this was true, but it sure sounded great.

Apparently, the guards were certain of his royal credentials, because the one in the gatehouse pulled a lever, and the massive doorway began to open.

"Nothing to it," Face grinned inwardly. They were in. Now for the hard part.

And if he were lucky, it would be at least another twelve hours before he even had to look at a horse.

xxx

Lady Malka was having her toes rubbed by two of her servants when another came bursting into the room, out of breath and flushed. Just by the look on the poor girl's face, the Princess Regent knew it was something of great interest. She shooed the toe-rubbers away like pesky pigeons, and snapped her fingers. "What is it?" Malka demanded of the messenger girl. "This had better be worth my while."

The servant curtsied. "Your Ladyship, a suitor has come to court."

That was hardly worth her foot massage being interrupted. Malka resisted the urge to throw something. "How dare you come bursting in on me for such a worthless bit of tripe? Can't you see I'm terribly busy, girl?"

"Forgive me, Lady. This one is, if you'll pardon my impertinence, different."

"Different how?" she snapped. "Has he two heads? His own gryphon? What is so damned important you can't wait to inform me at court?"

The messenger could barely contain her own excitement. "He has the Seventh Emerald, it seems, Your Ladyship…"

Malka felt her heart going into double time. If that were true, it meant the prophecy at last would be fulfilled…and her coronation was closer than she ever thought possible. Even if this servant had the manners of a mule and the face of a riverhound, who cared? He had the one thing that would assure she, and her scions, would rule Occiasilva for a thousand years.

"Bring him to me. Immediately. Look sharp about it, girl."

The servant departed as quickly as she'd come. Malka barked at her attendants to fetch one of her favorite gowns and the appropriate headdress. As they tied and knotted, laced and ribboned, her twisted mind began thinking.

_I might just have Sandr arrange for this one to have a nice little accident. After he's given me a son or two._

Satisfied that she was suitably royal in appearance, she shooed away the ladies-in-waiting and, with her personal bodyguard in tow, made her way to the Emerald Throne Room and took her place. She was ready for him, whoever he was. Surely not one of the local oafs from a neighboring kingdom…

Outside, Malka heard a trumpet flourish. Flanked by two Jackals, a herald and a Jongleur entered the room. The herald, she'd never seen before. But there was something vaguely familiar about the figure in motley patchwork; she just couldn't place it. She dismissed the odd feeling. After all, she ruled over so many peasants, and it was impossible to recognize them after a while.

"Your Ladyship," Murdock announced, performing a bow that looked more like a yoga pose done by a nervous guru, "may we present for your approval, His Royal Highness, Prince Templeton of the Western Wood…"

The man who walked confidently down the red carpet was every inch a prince. From the silver crown atop his flawless hair, to the warm smile on his features, and his finely tailored clothes, and…

Malka looked up. She knew her eyes had been straying to the leggings below his sword belt and baldric. It was unseemly. At the same time, it was so hard _not _to look. The man before her was elegant, regal, and self-assured all at once. He was, in short, just the man she'd been looking for. But she couldn't let him know that…at least not until she knew he really did have her prized emerald, and wasn't just some sort of swindler.

"Lady, I've ridden from a kingdom far, far away so that I might court you," Face announced, bowing low and brushing his lips ever so softly over her hand. Coming from another man, the words might have sounded ridiculous. From his mouth, they were pure poetry.

Malka just knew she was going to have some fun with this one. The how, and the when, would be on her terms.

"Leave us," she ordered, indicating Plink, Murdock, and all the Jackals in the room.

"Milady?" The bodyguard was confused. He never left her.

"I said go," she repeated. "When I need you, I will call for you…"

_To Be Continued_

_(Author's Note: I had to have a "plan" scene, and this is it. Thanks for all your feedback; next chapter should be more of a "heist" scene with a lot of action!)_


	7. Getting The Band Back Together

**Chapter 7: Getting The Band Back Together**

Anise's Resistance movement looked more to Hannibal like a weekend medieval re-enactment gathering in L.A. than an infantry squadron, but he thought it best for the moment not to point this out He chewed thoughtfully on his second-to-last cigar, listening to his client as she spoke in the tight, musty confines of Neylande's blacksmith shop.

"Now that these two brave knights," she gestured to B.A. and Hannibal, "have come at last from a faraway land to help us, we stand a chance!"

Before she could continue, and before either of the two Outlanders could get in a word edgewise, another voice spoke up.

"Bloody hell, my girl, you talk about saving us all, and it's _Outlanders_ you bring me?"

The crowd parted to reveal a red-haired young man who was perhaps four feet tall and half again as wide. His broad, ruddy face was clean-shaven and bore a scowl. He was attired in a thick leather apron studded with rivets, and tapped one foot impatiently.

"Knorri," Anise assured the Dwarf, "won't you at least give them a chance? They've come a very long way just to help, and…"

Juskiknorr Thromm was short-tempered even for a Dwarf. He spat into the dirt. "Can't be trusted. How d'we even know they're not spies, eh? Did you think of that before you brought 'em here with all of us? Could be there's a Jackal squad right outside, listening to every word!" He was so distraught that his face had turned bright maroon, like an overripe tomato.

B.A. stood up from his seat on an overturned trough. If Knorri was intimidated at all by the bigger man, he didn't appear to show it.

"Oh, so it's a fight y'want, is it? I can take you. Don't let my size fool you!" Knorri challenged, dropping into a defensive stance.

"I don't wanna fight you, man. We're on the same side here," B.A. said, opening his arms in a gesture of goodwill.

Anise inserted herself between the two men before things could escalate. "Knorri, you should be ashamed!" she chastised her friend. "Plink and I have spent the better part of two days in their company. They do want to help, and they're no friends of Ironloch. So sit down and listen, please."

He did as he was told, grudgingly, finding the hay bale farthest away from the unwelcome visitors and crossing his thick arms. Under his breath, he continued to mutter.

"Sir Hannibal, Sir Baracus, the floor is yours," Anise offered.

"The good thing is, I have the perfect plan," Hannibal said, rising and observing the crowd's reaction. All of them, with the exception of Knorri, had been listening attentively as Anise conducted the meeting, nodding in all the right places and even giving an encouraging "_Here, here_." He'd won them over without having to say much. But convincing them wasn't the hard part; it was the thought of training farmers, miners and fruit sellers how to fight in a very short period of time that worried him.

"The main thing is, in order for this plan to work, I'm going to need some able-bodied men and women who aren't afraid. Getting inside castle isn't impossible, and if my men are doing their part, it'll be a piece of cake. So, who's with me?"

Half the hands went straight up in the air; a few more stragglers followed until all were raised except Knorri's. The Dwarf sat where he was, eyeing the two Outlanders suspiciously. B.A. pointed at him.

"How 'bout you, man? This girl's been tellin' us what a great metalworker you are."

For a brief instant, Knorri's gaze flickered. "What of it?" he asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

"Man, this plan's gonna work right, we're gonna need us some weapons, armor, anything you can get us."

If anything could have broken the other man's shell, this was it. He stood at his full height and puffed out his chest. "No one in Occiasilva works iron the way I do. You should come down and see my shop sometime. Those Jackals' armor don't stand a chance against my custom broadheads an' spearpoints."

B.A. flashed a grin at him. "You're talkin' my language, man. You know anything about armorin' a vehicle?"

The animosity that had existed moments ago between them was melting away. Knorri nodded. "In practice. Never actually _done _it, mind, y'know, since all of us Dwarfs are forced to work in the mines all day."

"All y'all?" B.A. was incredulous. "Your kids too?"

"Yes." Knorri frowned. "Most Dwarves take to the earthworks naturally. Me? I'd rather be working iron at the forge. They all think I'm barmy."

Hannibal was beaming now, enjoying the taste of his smoke. Having a solid siege machine was perhaps the most important part of his plan, and to make one, they needed the Dwarf's help. "How about armor? We're going to need to arm everyone here with spears, and I'm thinking a catapult…"

"A catapult?" Knorri's eyes glowed. "Never thought you'd ask!" His look might have been that of a young lover pining for a beautiful woman.

The colonel felt a gentle tug at his sleeve. It was Anise. "Spears? Armor? Does that include me?" she asked him, her eyes wide and concerned. "I'm no warrior, Sir Hannibal…just a Gleamwright. We peasant folk aren't even allowed to own swords and spears, much less use them."

He could see her point. Among the Resistance, there were only a handful of young men and even a few women who even looked capable of using a weapon. But Plink had said something very interesting during their journey to Ironshire, and Hannibal had been thinking about it ever since.

_In our kingdom, appearance is everything._

"You leave that part to me, honey. All we need is the weapons and the armor for starters. We're in good hands between B.A. and your friend Knorri," he said.

"But what good are fourteen of us," said Mrs. Neylande, the smith's wife, as several others muttered in agreement with her, "against that castle and an entire garrison? No plan in the world can change the fact that we're outnumbered, Sir Knight."

Hannibal had already thought of this, of course. Ever since they'd left Anise's cottage, he'd been revising the plan in his mind until it was perfect. _It worked in Vietnam, it can work here. _"Ma'am, what we lack in numbers, we make up in strategic advantage." He turned to B.A., who'd been talking shop with his newfound ally Knorri. "Sergeant, you remember that op we did in the Parrot's Beak back in October '69?"

The big man groaned. "Hannibal, that was a terrible plan!"

"But," said Hannibal, chomping the last bit of his cigar, "we didn't have a catapult to use back then, did we?"

"Catapult? Man, I think the jazz is messin' with your head."

All that remained, it seemed, was to take a final vote among the Resistance members. "All those in favor of letting Sir Hannibal and his men carry out their plan?" Anise asked. Fourteen hands, including Knorri's, were raised without hesitation.

At the start of the meeting, the villagers had been nervous, glancing to the door of the smithy frequently as if worried they would be caught. Now, if Hannibal had to guess, they were ready to storm the gates of the castle themselves, even without armor and weapons. Anise's rousing speech had been effective. For just a simple peasant girl, she had a natural flair for leadership. As everyone started to mill around and chat, Hannibal took her aside.

"Any sign of your wizard friend?" he asked Anise softly as the meeting dispersed and people began to chat. He'd been hoping for an appearance by the mysterious Yarran, if nothing else to try and recruit him for the inevitable attack on the castle.

"I'm afraid not, Sir Hannibal," she sighed. She looked almost sad. "As I said, he keeps to himself. I did send word, so perhaps he forgot? He's an old man, and he is absentminded sometimes, you know."

Hannibal nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. "It might help to get him involved in this plan. Any advantage we can press will be useful."

"I understand. But what about your other friends? Any word from them?" She referred to Face and Murdock, who had not yet returned from Ironloch.

A huge grin spread over Hannibal's face. "I think our good Prince Templeton is right in his element. Now, we've got work to do, so here's the plan…"

xxx

"Oh, yes. Please do that again."

"Would you prefer the leather one?"

"You need not ask."

Face held in his hands a device that might have been mistaken for something sold in the seedier parts of Los Angeles, but which Lady Malka had simply described as "my little device." It was small, wooden, wrapped in leather with little knobs all on it. He rubbed it over her feet and she sighed deeply with pleasure.

"You have lovely feet, my lady." She didn't…they were wide and flat, more suited to a waterfowl than a princess…but Face had quickly figured out that the way to Malka's heart was through her ears. She lapped up his flattery the way a thirsty dog lapped up water.

They were in her private chambers. That was the main part of his plan. No security, no ladies-in-waiting, nothing but the two of them and plenty of space for him to work his charm. He hadn't even had to lie about her being pretty. She was, but he knew that underneath the layers of satin and lace was a heart colder than any winter's day.

It was too bad. He was starting to sort of like her, albeit in a "cougar" kind of way.

"What is your kingdom like, my prince?" Malka asked him with some interest as he rubbed diligently at her feet.

"The Western Wood?" said Face. "Well, it's a warm place, with plenty of sunshine, good food, beautiful mansions, and even more beautiful women. But none half as beautiful as you," he assured her, seeing her raised eyebrow.

She was playing with Plink's emerald absently in her left hand, as if it were a toy. "You know, I will soon be a Queen, and I've yet to find the right man to reign with me as my Prince Consort."

Face smiled to himself. A few hours with him, and she was already putty in his hands. But Hannibal had sent him to the castle to collect information…and that was what he did best. He put down the massager and stood, facing Malka.

"Maybe it's because you, my lady, are worthy of only the very finest sort of man. Tell me, have there been any others? I'd hate to have to duel another for your heart, although I gladly would."

If Face hadn't been so experienced in the art of tells, he might have missed her slight moment of hesitation and the shift of her eyes. She had someone else, all right. He'd guessed she would have. Power-hungry types like her just weren't monogamous. One more thing to tell the Colonel when he got back from his mission.

"Of course not," she replied coquettishly, waving a fan in front of her face. "I've had many suitors, of course, but none of them have met my favor. Yet."

The sunlight through the window was fading. Because watches were of no use in Occiasilva, Face had been careful to keep an eye on it throughout his seduction of the princess. He'd scheduled a rendezvous with Murdock and Plink just after sunset behind the stables, which was plenty of time for him to interrogate her…and for them to do a recon sweep of the entire castle, looking for any weaknesses. It was almost time.

Through a carefully disguised series of questions, Face had already managed to learn the strength of the castle garrison, the fact that many of them were chronically drunk, and that Malka needed only this last emerald to fulfill a prophecy and be crowned Queen of Occiasilva. Also, though it had already been obvious, that she was cold, calculating, manipulative, and cruel, and had few redeeming features.

_Time to move. Now or never._

He cleared his throat and stood, giving Malka a gallant bow. "My lady Regent, I have to apologize in advance for this, but…"

"But what, Prince Templeton?" she purred. "You've nothing to apologize for."

A nervous little laugh. "I have to excuse myself for a bit. It's my horse, Achilles, you see. I have to personally attend to him at the end of the day. Otherwise, he's a nervous wreck," explained Face, moving toward the chamber door. "I'll be back."

"Let the servants handle that. Right now, I am in need of your…sword, my prince."

"My sword?" He gulped. The sword Plink had given him was just for show; he was unsure about actually using it.

She advanced on him, quick as a cat. "I can't have my future Consort just running off whenever he feels like it. I need to know," Malka ran a hand up and down his doublet, "exactly where he is at all times."

Face didn't like the abrupt change in her tone. This was a woman who was used to being obeyed under any circumstances. He hated to think what would happen if she weren't. Probably a replay of the _Off with their heads! _scene from _Alice…_

"Well, if you'll just escort me down to the stables, then? It'll give me a chance to introduce my horse to you," he suggested.

There was a sudden flash of silver, and Face saw the dagger appear in her hand and point itself just above his heart. Where it had come from, he had no idea, but her corset no doubt would make a nice hiding place, he thought. He had to try hard not to chuckle, and stare, despite the danger.

"I think not," she said softly, not moving the weapon an inch. "My good prince, I believe I'd rather have you stay here, as my personal guest, until the coronation ceremony." She pulled out the emerald with her free hand and watched it sparkle in the candlelight.

"And after the coronation, you give me a candy apple to take home with me?" he asked. He kept his tone light, not wanting to give her the advantage.

Her smile was icy. "After the coronation, and after I enjoy all the trappings of a royal wedding, I really have no further use for a Consort, do I?"

This could not have been part of Hannibal's plan. It was supposed to be a piece of cake…easy in, gather intelligence, rendezvous, and easy out. Simple. He'd done it hundreds of times. The trouble was, he'd never done it with the Grimm's Fairy Tales version of Lucretia Borgia as an opponent.

"You do know the way to a man's heart," he said, trying to think of some way out of the situation. _What would Hannibal do if he were here? He'd probably make some smart-ass remark, and I can't exactly do that. At least not right now…_

"Guards!" snapped Malka, as two of the Jackals appeared from the hall outside. Both were armed with swords and long spears. "I want the two of you to keep close watch on the good prince. Make sure he is comfortable, but don't let him out of your sight for an instant." She turned to look at Face while sheathing her dagger, an artificial smile on her lips. "I'd hate to be a poor host. Is there anything I can have my servants bring to make your stay more comfortable?"

He grinned right back. "Oh, I wouldn't say no to a few long bedsheets, a grappling hook, and an official retraction on all those 'most beautiful woman in the land' comments I made earlier."

If Lady Malka were upset, she didn't show it. She only shrugged. "Have it your way. I will be stopping in on you, just to make sure you're not up to any funny business, like trying to escape. And don't think I won't be watching you," she warned in a low, raspy voice not unlike a cat's. "You can stay out of trouble for a few days while I plan a coronation and wedding ceremony, I hope?"

"Oh, back in the Western Wood, I won plenty of awards for being the kid most likely to stay out of trouble."

"Good." Malka nodded. As she turned to leave, she added almost as an afterthought, "I'd hate to have to kill you before my big party. I always think bloodshed puts such a damper on celebration." One of the guards secured the heavy door behind her with a loud clicking of metal on wood.

Immediately afterward, Face started looking around the room. She hadn't even bothered to have him tied up. Mistake number one. There were plenty of things he could use for an escape. Mistake number two. That, and the surly-looking guards, were the least of his worries.

The sun had dipped below the horizon. He had to get a message to Murdock and Plink to let them know about the slight change of plans…but how?

Then Face found himself looking at the mantle above the fireplace, and he had his answer.

_If I can just remember how to _use _one of the things…_

xxx

"You were right, muchacho," Murdock muttered to Plink as a couple of Jackals passed them by without a second look. "Being a Jongleur has its advantages."

The two of them had spent most of the afternoon wandering the corridors of Castle Ironloch, from the sculleries to the armory and the towers. The place was immense. Murdock, with his photographic memory, already had a recon report ready to give to Hannibal. Every time someone had bothered to ask what they were doing in an off-limits spot, they launched into an improvised Jongleur's comedy routine, and the questioner was soon amused enough to let them go. It worked like a charm.

"I can't help but think, Sir Murdock," Plink said, then stopped. Something was obviously bothering him.

"Think what?" Murdock replied absently as he swiped a torch to guide them in the fading light.

"That…no, never mind it, it's a silly thought."

Murdock stopped. He looked right at the younger man. The Jongleur was clearly braver than he'd initially thought; Plink was bold enough to go into a soldiers' barracks armed only with a lute and his sense of humor. That was a quality Murdock admired.

"You can tell me. C'mon, what is it?"

They were in the western corridor leading to the gatehouse; a soaring hallway of stone draped with tapestries and smelling slightly of mildew. "That somehow, the castle is familiar to me," he said in a faraway voice.

Murdock chuckled. "You said you worked here, didn't you? It's not your first time to the rodeo. That's why the Colonel paired you and me up."

"No, I mean," Plink ran a hand over the stones, "that it feels like a dream to me. It's always been like that. I can't explain it any other way, Sir Knight."

Not knowing quite how to respond, Murdock just nodded. "Maybe you've just been dreamin' after eating lots of cheese. That always happens to me when I have a whole pizza. Now, c'mon, Faceman's gonna be expecting us down behind the stables," he said.

"Perhaps you're right." Plink removed his hand, but still wore a sad, wistful expression. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

Before they could continue along their way, voices reached them from across the long corridor, along with the sound of booted feet and the clank of weapons.

"Her Ladyship wants him alive," a deep voice was saying. "That skinny herald, the one who came in with that Prince Templeton earlier."

Every hair on Murdock's neck stood up, and not from the chill of the castle. Whoever it was, they were coming for him, and it didn't sound as if they were selling Girl Scout cookies. The only weapon he carried was a long knife; his favorite Mini 14 was in a galaxy far, far away and of no use to him here anyway.

"Don't think these guys want a sing-along round of 'She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain,'" he whispered urgently to Plink. "Got any ideas, other than hoping they don't see us?"

If a light bulb could have gone on over the Jongleur's head, it might have. Maybe a candle instead, thought Murdock. The young man lit up. "Follow me," he said.

"Follow you _where_?" Behind them, the voices were getting louder.

Plink beckoned to him, and they crept along in the shadows. As they turned a corner, Murdock gulped. It was a dead end with only a small water fountain.

_What would Hannibal do? He'd probably laugh at them and then manage to steal their weapons…_

As Murdock was thinking, he didn't notice Plink turning the figurehead of the brass bull atop the water fountain. A small doorway appeared in what had just been solid stone. It was a way out…or at least out of the situation at hand.

"Follow me, Sir Murdock," Plink said.

The little doorway was just wide enough for the two of them. As they squeezed out, they heard the rush of the soldiers clattering past, then silence. They looked up and saw that they stood at the southwest point of the castle, below the looming western tower.

"How'd you even know that was there?" Murdock asked in genuine astonishment, brushing the dirt and dust from his leather jerkin.

Plink shrugged. He was blushing as he shouldered his Jongleur's bag and lute. "I don't know, good sir. Maybe I somehow knew it was there all along."

"I think we'll want to tell the Colonel about that one," Murdock grinned. "He loves the military strategy. He didn't just get his nickname by accident, you know. And what we have here is a back door."

"What about Prince Templeton? We were supposed to meet with him behind the stables, were we not?"

Murdock had secretly missed Face's gentle complaining all afternoon. Plink, by comparison, was a modest, almost shy sort who hardly had an unkind word for anyone or anything. He clapped a hand on the Jongleur's shoulder.

"Hey, don't you worry about the Faceman. He could talk his way outta being eaten alive by cannibals if he were tied up and dipped in barbeque sauce, muchacho. And he's with a pretty girl this time. That's where he does his best work."

"Will he be…all right without us?"

Murdock cast one long look up at the tall tower where, no doubt, his best friend was charming the lovely princess right out of her kingdom, not to mention other things. A single light was visible from its window.

"Like I said, little buddy, he'll be A-OK. Now, c'mon, let's rendezvous with the Colonel and the Big Guy before those guards figure out we flew the coop," he said. The two of them took off at a slow trot, easily blending into the twilight until they were all but invisible.

Neither had noticed the arrow, with a slip of paper tied around it, which still quivered in the trunk of an oak tree just thirty yards beyond the walls of Ironloch.

_To Be Continued_

_(Author's Note: I apologize for the delay between chapters. Life has been tricky recently, but I know a lot of readers have been enjoying this one. More to come soon, including a (mild) Face torment scene! Any comments, as always, are welcome.)_


	8. Sanctuary!

Chapter 8: Sanctuary!

xxx

"You sure it was a good idea leavin' Faceman in that tower, all alone, dressed like that?" asked B.A. as he pounded away at a section of metal plating. The sun had set, and there had been no word from the lieutenant-cum-Prince. To complicate matters, Murdock had not yet returned.

Hannibal was honestly more worried about Murdock's absence, though he said nothing, only shrugging in response. "I don't know, Sergeant. Remember when we sent Face into that biker bar in Long Beach wearing a cashmere sweater and tight jeans, armed only with a .22 pistol and his charm?"

"That wasn't fair, man."

"He did volunteer for that one," Hannibal pointed out.

Right on cue, Anise brought over a bucket of water to the two of them. B.A. gratefully drank several ladles of the cold liquid. Inside the smithy, with all the weapons-building work going on, the temperature had climbed until it was almost unbearable. "Any news of the Prince?" she asked timidly.

With one ring-encrusted hand, B.A. wiped the stray droplets from his mouth. "He's prob'ly talked that princess into givin' him her Dream House and her pink sports car by now," he said.

Hannibal likewise accepted a drink of water. He had been thinking the piece of parchment that he'd found in Anise's cottage that first morning, and had been doing a good deal of thinking about it. In fact, it was still in his jacket pocket. Now seemed as good a time as any to ask her about the poem. Like Face, he needed to get all the information he could while preparing the attack, and especially so when it came to the castle and its defenses.

He cleared his throat. "If Malka gets her hands on this last emerald, what happens then? A coronation?"

Her eager nods confirmed his suspicion. "Yes. The old prophecy said that she could only become Queen if and when the last, and greatest emerald were ever found, and she were to marry a prince. And now, it would appear that she has both at hand, even if we know the emerald, and the Prince, for that matter, are only clever copies."

"About bloody time, too," Knorri huffed under a load of scrap metal. "That sorry excuse for a princess has us all running about in the mines, for cat's sake, all day long when we could be doing useful things, like making catapults…"

The Dwarf's eyes had wandered to the contraption that was starting to take shape after only a couple hours' work. He was looking at it appreciatively, as if it were his child. The little man had already more than proven his worth, helping B.A. design the siege machine and carrying heavy loads despite his small stature. He was as enthusiastic about the prospect of taking down the regime at Ironloch as any of them.

"Bring me some more of that metal sheeting, would you, man?" B.A. called over the noise in the forge. He had taken a great liking to Knorri despite their strained introduction, and the two certainly shared an aptitude for metalworking. It hadn't taken him long to get to work, despite the antiquated setup of Neylande's smithy. This was a place that normally turned out plows and harnesses, not weapons, but B.A. had quickly discovered a way around that.

While Knorri and B.A. labored and bantered over the catapult, every other Resistance member had been put to work in other ways. Some were making arrows, others working on makeshift leather-and-metal armor. A few women, like Anise, were carrying water and bread, making sure everyone stayed hydrated and full.

The only one who appeared to be doing nothing was Hannibal. He was, however, deep in thought over the plan which was currently taking shape in his mind. There was nothing fancy about it; it was a strategy he'd used many times over the years. _If you make your enemy think you're on his side, he'll invite you right in. _A slight variation on the old Trojan Horse gambit.

"Sir Hannibal?" Anise tugged at his tunic sleeve. "Were you thinking just now?"

"I'm always thinking," he replied. "I was going to ask about this coronation ceremony. Where do you think it's going to take place?"

She smiled. "That's easy. The Parade Grounds, on the east side of Ironloch." It was where every event of any importance took place in Ironshire.

From the high vantage point earlier, Hannibal remembered the creek which ran just beyond the eastern castle wall. That was good…now he'd just need a report back from Murdock on exact specifications. Ceremonies weren't planned overnight, either, which meant they had time to finish the catapult and make the plan absolutely watertight.

"I have one other question for you," Hannibal said in a low voice. "How many Resistance members did you say there were?"

"Fourteen…"

Without looking up, Hannibal gave the slightest forward nod. "I think somebody may be trying to gatecrash us."

The man in the direction of his nod was dressed much the same as the others. Tall, rangy, dark green tunic, a short beard. He was in the middle of wrapping a bundle of arrows, and Hannibal knew instantly that this man hadn't been there the whole time. Had to be a spy. His hand wandered to the .45, which he'd tucked into the leather pouch at his belt.

"Be careful," whispered Anise.

"Oh, I will."

Seeing Hannibal advance toward him, the man instantly stopped what he was doing, his body going into a defensive posture. He nonchalantly grinned and tipped his cap.

"Something the matter, good sir?"

Hannibal smiled back, but the expression was as cold as that of his weapon's steel. "This party's invitations only. I think I'm going to have to ask to see yours, friend."

Lord Orsandr, almost casually, picked up a rapier from the bench next to him. "And what if I were to tell you that in this kingdom, 'parties' such as this affair are much frowned upon? As in high treason to Her Ladyship, punishable by death?"

By this time everyone, including B.A. and Knorri, had stopped what they were doing and were waiting, holding their breath. It was a scene that resembled a medieval version of a standoff in some old Western movie.

"I think Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson, not to mention my other friends, say differently," Hannibal said coolly, keeping his weapon level. "Something's rotten in the kingdom of Occiasilva, and we're here to take out all the garbage. Starting with you, pal."

"You'll pay for your insolence, peasant," Orsandr growled, his pride clearly wounded. He flicked the rapier into a ready stance. "Or don't you fight as well as you fling insults at your superiors?"

B.A. moved immediately to Hannibal's side, a bull ready to charge, but the colonel held him in check. "Steady, B.A. I think this guy just needs a refresher course from Miss Manners," he murmured.

"He needs his teeth rearranged, man," B.A. snapped back.

"Just keep an eye on him, in case he plays dirty. And hand me one of those swords," Hannibal said. He tucked the gun, with its one round, for the moment, back into its hiding place. There was no telling when he might need it, but his soldier's instincts told him now was not the time.

The sword he took from B.A. was no beauty, but he could feel its perfect balance. Knorri's work, no doubt. He touched the blade lightly to Sandr's. "_En garde_."

"A peasant who knows the art of swordsmanship?" the lord snorted. "Next you'll be telling me you know a talking horse? Or a sheep who speaks High Guilderian?"

"I don't know," Hannibal said lightly, unleashing a flurry of quick strikes, which Sandr parried with some difficulty, "maybe an invisible horse? Where I come from, they're common."

"You may speak well, peasant, but we'll see how you handle a blade."

"I just have one question for you," Hannibal said.

"And what's what?" sneered Sandr.

"You wouldn't happen to have six fingers on either of your hands, would you?"

"What sort of question is that?"

Hannibal grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "The kind of question," he said, making a sudden lunge, "to take you off your guard…"

Everyone had stopped what he or she was doing and, breath collectively held, looked on at the duelists. It would have been simple for the Resistance members to simply rush Orsandr, their superior numbers more than a match for him. But they were, as Anise had said, not fighters by nature…and this was a gentlemen's duel. No interference was needed or called for. So they simply watched; the only sounds were the metallic echoes of blade on blade as the colonel and the assassin moved together in their deadly dance.

Sandr moved to slightly higher ground atop a stack of hay bales, his rangy form moving as easily a big cat's. "I see you've learned in the Fechtbucher technique," he said as he moved along the row, matching Hannibal's every move. "I schooled in that technique…and mastered it by the age of sixteen." He executed a half-twist in midair and landed beside his opponent. "What do you have to say to that, peasant?"

"No, I think you've got it all wrong," Hannibal replied jovially. "It's the Universal technique. As in, learned at Universal Studios for a movie in a couple days. But there is something I need to get off my chest."

"And what might that be?"

Hannibal's face lit up with a broad grin. "I'm afraid I'm not really a lefty." He switched the rapier to his right hand and saluted. "Sorry about that."

His opponent was obviously taken aback, having to redouble his efforts to parry the blows. Sandr was unused to a challenge, much less an Outlander, but he was still a master of his art. Back and forth they fought, each pressing the other's weaknesses. B.A. was just about to step in, the war-axe in one hand, as Hannibal lost his footing momentarily, but in a split second, the older man recovered, hooking his leg around Sandr's and sending him crashing to the dirt floor. As Sandr groped for his dropped blade, he froze. Hannibal's own swordpoint was a millimeter or so from his throat.

He had lost. And he hated to lose.

"You…you cheated," he hissed, Adam's apple bobbing nervously.

Hannibal didn't move the weapon. "I don't think you're exactly in a position to accuse me of anything. Now, you can either tell me everything you overheard during this meeting, and give me the exact information I need, or," he gestured behind him to B.A., "I let my friend here give you the closest shave you ever had in your life. Your choice, pal, but better make it quick, since I don't think I can hold him off forever."

Lady Malka's assassin made a helpless gesture. There was nothing he could do at the moment, and he knew it. He'd have to think of another way to beat the Outlander who held him at swordpoint. And he already was thinking of his next move. He'd been alive too long to be outsmarted by an amateur.

Just as Hannibal withdrew his blade just enough for Sandr to rise, hands held in the air, the door of the smithy crashed open. A wild-eyed Murdock, with Plink right behind him, made his entrance.

Something was seriously wrong. Hannibal and Murdock locked eyes. It was the look they'd shared a hundred times in Vietnam. _Trouble…and lots of it._

"Colonel, we got ourselves some company," Murdock panted. He sounded as if he'd run the last stretch at a dead sprint.

"Jackals," added Plink, equally winded. "A whole squadron, sir, by the sound of things."

Hannibal shot a glance at Orsandr. The big assassin shrugged.

"I led them right to your little meeting place. Now, do you think me an unworthy opponent?" He smirked.

As he did, someone's cry of surprise shattered the tension. "Fire! There's a fire!" It took Hannibal only a second to realize it was Anise who cried out, and that the smithy was unquestionably ablaze. Smoke was already pouring in through the cracks.

"This isn't over," Hannibal said, his voice low and deadly, as he traced the tiniest line across Sandr's throat with his blade. A scarlet ribbon of blood appeared. "You may have the numbers, pal, but I've got lots and lots of experience. And I've got my team."

There were angry-sounding men's voices and shouts outside, and the ominous crash of a battering ram against wooden timbers. Sandr's Jackal squad were trying to force their way in. The door would surely not hold long. And the flames were spreading. Anise, with a few of her fellow Resistance members, were frantically trying to put out the fire with buckets of water, but it was no use.

"We gotta make a run for it," Murdock urged, trying to help a few of the men shore up the door with little success. "Colonel!"

Hannibal kicked out at Sandr, knocking the wind right out of the assassin. "That oughta keep you busy while we excuse ourselves. You're not too bad with a sword…just remember to keep eye contact and eat your leafy greens, and maybe we can have a rematch sometime."

"This way, Sir Hannibal, it's our only chance!" Anise called, waving her arms and moving everyone to the far corner of the burning building, where a small trap door in the ground had been lifted.

"Escape hatch?" Hannibal grinned. These Occiasilvans had thought of everything. Maybe they did have the workings of a revolution after all. "Nice touch." He helped her and several of the other women down. Then it was time for the men.

B.A.'s huge frame almost didn't fit, and he was clearly having second thoughts between going down a dark tunnel and staying in a burning building to fight off a squad of soldiers by himself. "This is almost as bad as flyin'!" he shouted, reluctantly climbing down.

Behind them, the door fell open with a huge crash. A section of the roof came tumbling down in a shower of burning hay and timbers.

"It's been fun, fellas, but I'm late for a very important date," Hannibal said cheekily, lowering the ironbound trap door back into place and leaving half a dozen frustrated Jackals to pound helplessly behind him.

The tunnel itself was narrow, tight, and smelled of disuse. With almost twenty bodies packed tightly in its confines, and no light, it was stifling. Various _oofs! _and _sorrys! _were audible as everyone ran into one another. Hannibal reached into his pocket and produced his lighter, shedding a soft golden glow. Anise and Murdock picked up a couple of torches, which had apparently been left there for this very possibility, and they were lit.

"Where does this tunnel lead?" asked Hannibal. Even with the torchlight, visibility was dim, and the blackness beyond looked endless.

Knorri spoke. "I dug this myself, all last year. There's an exit right below the edge of the Greyspikes…if the Jackals haven't found it yet, or it hasn't caved in somehow."

They had little choice. Going back to Neylande's shop was impossible, and Sandr knew where they were now. Not to mention they'd start to run out of air quickly down here. Hannibal didn't take long to make his decision. He nodded to Anise, then to the Dwarf.

"Take us there. We've got to make some distance between us," he said, "and them." The Royal Guardsmen were still pounding on the door, which had thankfully sealed itself. For the time being, they were free.

In single file, the Resistance members, along with B.A., Murdock and Hannibal, made their painstaking way, minute by minute, through the earthen tunnel. It was damp and cool, and in spots looked like it had partially caved in, but seemed otherwise a safe passage. Time went slower down here, with no way to measure it.

Nobody said much except Knorri. The whole while, he kept bragging about his work. For one who supposedly hated being underground, he took to it like a bird to the skies. "Of course, we Dwarves have it in our blood," he said to B.A. "Even though I'd rather be hammering out blades, I still dug this tunnel. Just in case. I suppose it paid off, eh?"

B.A. grunted a reply. He was slightly claustrophobic in places like this. When he'd been a boy, he'd once gotten separated from his mother in a dark subway tunnel in Chicago, and the memory had lingered. Best if the others didn't know, though. It was only one more thing for them to rib him about.

"You did good," he said softly. It couldn't have been easy without modern digging equipment, he had to admit.

"Does anyone else smell that?" Anise said, holding her torch aloft and sniffing the air. "It smells like…"

"Fresh air," Hannibal finished for her. "Can't be too far now…Sergeant, why don't you see about an exit strategy for us?"

As they group approached the source of the cool draft, B.A. stopped. Handing his torch to Knorri, he put all his considerable bulk against the thick wooden planking which served as a doorway at this end. It gave way with almost absurd ease, sending him sprawling out onto a moonlit patch of tall grass and wildflowers.

Right behind him, Hannibal climbed out, scanning the area for any sign of pursuit. No Jackals to be seen, only a gently sloping meadow in the shadow of a treeline. Far below, in the valley, the village of Ironloch and the castle looked like toys. They'd come a long way. Maybe even a mile or so.

"Now that's what I call a great escape," Murdock said as he hauled himself out and breathed in the night air gratefully. "Colonel, we did good. You never did tell me you'd mastered the gentlemanly art of swordsmanship," he added in his plummy British accent.

"Didn't I?" Hannibal grinned and reached in his pocket for one of his remaining cigar stubs. "I always like to save a few surprises, Captain."

"Yeah, like lettin' that HQ burn to the ground," B.A. broke in. "Ain't gonna be nothin' left of that place but ash. Where we gonna built a catapult now?"

Nobody answered him immediately. In the adrenaline rush of their successful escape from Sandr and his Jackal squad, they'd thankfully lost no lives, but they had lost their secret meeting location and all the equipment needed to build their arms and siege machines. Even from where they stood, the burning smithy was visible, a bright glow in the village.

Anise spoke up in a hesitant voice. "Sirs, although the smithy is lost, I think I may have a solution to the problem."

Immediately, Knorri laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. "Are you talking about that damn wizard, girl?" the Dwarf ridiculed. "You mean to tell me you're thinking about dropping in on Yarran with the whole Resistance?"

"It's not the whole Resistance, Knorri," she assured her friend gently. "You'll take everyone from here to Woodsman Kanute's. It's not far, and you'll be safer. Plink and I will go with the Knights of the Western Wood to ask Yarran for his help."

"But…"

Her voice was soft, but firm. "It's the best chance we have, Knorri. Kanute and Elspeth will be able to treat the wounded, and we'll regroup there with you. Trust me."

"All right," Knorri grumbled. A few minutes later, the remaining Resistance members had headed off in the direction of the woods. There was still no sign they'd been followed, which was all right by Hannibal and his men. They'd been fighting and working for the better part of the evening, and they needed rest.

"Y'know, I didn't get a chance to get with Faceman before we got chased outta the castle," Murdock admitted. "You figure he's all right?"

Hannibal had been thinking of some way to contact his lieutenant. Being out of contact, in a strange country, was never a good situation. The obvious solution was a heliograph, using Morse code, but it was well dark now, and he didn't want to give the Jackals an obvious target. The heliograph was out. So was a brightly lit signal fire. He was trying to remember a time when he'd last used smoke signals when Plink tugged at his sleeve.

"Sir Hannibal, I just thought of something," the Jongleur offered. "You need a messenger, but one who can come and go without a trace. Is that right?"

"Yes," Hannibal said, a little distracted and not quite sure what the younger man had in mind. "That's right. If you have an idea, I'd like to hear it."

Murdock was scanning the treeline, and the manic gleam had come back into his eyes. "Colonel, I think I know what he's got in mind," he said.

In a couple of trees were perched a number of birds about the size and shape of a dove. Plink made a low, guttural cooing noise in the back of his throat. One of the birds flew from its roost and alighted on his arm, as gentle and tame as a pet store parakeet. It was not grey, but a striking deep blue color.

"Columbas," he explained. "They're homing birds. I learned how to mimic their call when I was young. Really, they'll do whatever you like, once you build their trust."

Hannibal and Murdock shared an appreciative look. They had exactly what they needed to communicate with Face now. "They're birds, man, and birds got a bird brain," B.A. said, shooting a sideways glace at Murdock, who huffed.

"These will get the job done, Sir Baracus. I know. The Resistance uses them frequently," Anise put in.

The matter seemed to be settled. Hannibal was already reaching in his pocket for a piece of paper. He stopped. The poem…the one containing the prophecy…was gone. Maybe he'd simply dropped it. "Anybody seen a little piece of paper around here?"

When the search turned up empty, he frowned. That had contained crucial information. But maybe Murdock would remember. He always did have a gift for poetry. Hannibal dismissed the matter and accepted a scrap of paper B.A. had in his belt.

"What're you gonna tell Faceman?" asked B.A. as Hannibal wrote on the tiny scroll.

"Just to stay put, gather all the intelligence he can," murmured Hannibal, "and mostly, to charm the corset off that princess and make her fall in love with him." He added under his breath so that Plink and Anise could not hear, "We've got to put together an assault to coincide with this coronation. It's not going to be easy."

Satisfied that the coded message was to his liking, Hannibal let Plink tie it to the leg of the columba, whisper into its ear, and send it fluttering toward the distant castle. In a few seconds, the night had swallowed the little bird whole.

"I hope you know what you're doin', man" B.A. said, leaning on his war-axe.

"Just an adjustment to the plan," Hannibal assured him. "You think General Washington gave up on attacking the Hessians when a little thing like bad weather got in his way?"

"You're lettin' the jazz mess with your head again."

The mention of weather had done one thing if nothing else. It had reminded them all that they were out on an open field, the hour was late, and who knew whether the Jackals were still in the area. They needed shelter, and they needed it fast.

Plink shivered in spite of himself. His Jongleur's silks were little protection against the cool night air. "What do we do now?" he asked.

That was when the noises started. Soft at first, the normal sounds of nocturnal animals, then getting louder. Hannibal reached for his Colt, thinking Sandr had somehow managed to track their party through the night, but quickly realized the din was coming from the Greyspike Forest itself and not from the valley.

"D'you suppose it's a Lous?" Murdock asked, trembling where he stood.

"Say what, fool?" barked B.A.

"Lemur of Unusual Size?" Anise surprised them both by knowing exactly what he meant. "No, they're as uncommon as dragons in Occiasilva."

The sound was close at hand, and a light had appeared. In the long shadows cast forth emerged the image of a hideous creature with long teeth, gnarled claws, and a low, evil laugh…

Hannibal stood ready to fight. B.A. was increduloud, Murdock shaking like a leaf on a windy day, Plink right behind him. Only Anise, torch in hand, was brave enough to approach the horrible apparition.

"Yarran," she said, chiding like a mother to her child. "That isn't nice. We have visitors, and they're here to help."

The "creature" disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. From the treeline emerged a stick of a man with a tall, pointed hat and a wild bush of white hair. A heavy walking stick was clenched in one of his wrinkled hands, and he shook it violently.

"No, no, girl, you're supposed to act scared!" he cried in a reedy voice. "I'll never keep everyone away if they know I'm harmless!"

Hannibal grinned at his troops. "I think we've found our accommodations for the night, gentlemen."

"Aw, man," B.A. grunted.

"I got the top bunk," Murdock said.

"Shut up, fool…"

_To Be Continued.._

_(Author's Note: Since I've started my new job, I've had less time to write. Apologies for the delay. Lots more Princess Bride-inspired zaniness to come, I promise, including the infamous 'Mawwiage' scene and an homage to Miracle Max!) _


	9. Plotters, Prisoners and Princes

Chapter 9: Prisoners, Plotters and Princes

xxx

Nightfall.

It was impossible to tell exactly how late it was, since his watch had stopped working the minute he'd found himself in Occiasilva, but Face looked at the position of the stars and guessed it might have been right around midnight. Everything else in this kingdom was foreign, but the stars seemed exactly the same. They were as bright as they'd been in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, without the bright light of any city nearby to drown them out.

Face sighed deeply. It was the kind of night that almost demanded the company of a beautiful woman. Unfortunately for him, the only one of those in the vicinity who liked him happened to be psychotic.

He wasn't sure exactly what to make of Lady Malka. Sure, she was beautiful enough, even if she were older than himself by a few years. She was elegant in that fading Hollywood diva sort of way, her accent was cultured and impeccable…

_Stop it! You're supposed to be trying to escape, not thinking about ways to seduce the princess!_

And escape had been on his mind for the hours he'd been locked in the tower. Without any word from Hannibal and the others, Face had busied himself right away, figuring he might be able to contact them later. It was a long way down to the ground below, which was one reason the guards had been so easily distracted. They simply didn't expect him to try an escape from the high tower.

In fact, after he'd kept insisting that he'd spotted a dragon through his window, they'd left him alone for several hours. The room was far from empty; in fact, it contained all manner of useful objects. There was a bow mounted above the fireplace, which he'd used to try and make contact with Murdock earlier (_and, _he thought, _might have to use again_), a small glass paperweight that might be useful as a reflective signaling device, a fireplace poker, and yards upon yards of fabric and tapestries. These proved to be the most useful of all. Face had spent his time alone braiding and tying together the strips until he'd made a rope perhaps sixty feet long. Judging by the distance, he'd need every inch of it or else he might be food for the royal hounds in the morning. He kept tearing and braiding together, feeling vaguely silly doing so.

There was the one time he and Murdock had done exactly the same thing to escape from the second floor of the V.A. He grinned. Half a day away from Murdock…and the rest of the Team…and he missed them dearly.

He was wondering absently what they might be doing now when he heard the sound of a key in the door. Quickly he stashed the yards of fabric rope into a trunk and looked as casual as he could.

The door swung open. It was Malka.

"Your Majesty," he said politely, bowing at the waist. It wouldn't hurt to at least try and be nice. "Did you bring me a little midnight snack? I am getting a little hungry."

She said nothing. The Lady of Ironloch had traded her severe black satin gown for a softer blue nightdress, and even her expression was less stern. She carried a small basket under her arm, and she was smiling.

"Prince Templeton," Malka said lightly. She was actually smiling; the effect was years off her face. "That's not really your name, is it?"

Face knew it would be easy to simply club her with the poker and make a run for it through the open door, but that would have been foolish. There were hundreds of soldiers in the castle. He would have a slim chance, if any. She had to have left the door open for a reason. So he decided to play along, for now.

"Well, since I'm an orphan, it might not have been my _real_ name, you know," he said with a shrug, "but it's the only one I've got."

She was circling him with a look of curiousity. "I thought as much. I already know you're a spy for that pathetic Resistance Movement, so it doesn't really matter. What matters is how much you know, and what you plan to do with that knowledge."

That part, Face knew, was a given. She may have been an ice queen but she was nobody's fool. This was an interrogation plain and simple. But he'd already survived many interrogations. This would be no different.

"Well, I always think better on a full stomach. You, uh, wouldn't happen to have anything on you?"

Seductively, she pulled a small velvet pouch from her décolletage. "I'm afraid all I have with me is Murkish Delight. It's a delicacy. Would you like a piece?" She produced a small bit of candy from the pouch and put it lightly between her lips. "It's my favorite."

Face nodded and accepted it. He didn't figure she'd be into poisoning her own candy, twisted as she was. It was indeed delicious; something like a cross between chocolate and toffee.

"Now, because I believe in second chances," she said, putting away the pouch again, "I'm going to give you the chance to tell you everything you know. If you choose to be stubborn, I'll let my good friend Orsandr take you to the dungeons. And he isn't anywhere near as forgiving as I am."

There was a brief pause. Face fought a crazy urge to laugh. Here he was, a male version of Rapunzel in a tower, and he was getting the Good Cop/Bad Cop treatment. Hannibal would never believe it, if and when he got out of here.

He kept his tone light as he answered her. "Milady, I really only know what my royal tutors taught me. You know, how to offer a toast at state dinners, the best colors of crushed velvet for different seasons, the correct way to beat one's servants. I'm pretty hopeless as a spy. Not like the famous Sir Ian of Fleming…now _he_ was a spy…"

Her eyes narrowed, giving her the look of an angry lioness. Malka was not buying the lies. Face was going to play his trump card a lot earlier than he'd expected.

"It's not me you want, really. You want the leaders of the Resistance. I don't even know who they are," he said apologetically. "It's all pretty hush-hush, all these secret handshakes and passwords." His glance kept flicking to the fireplace. _One swing, and I wouldn't even really hurt her, just knock her out for a few minutes…_

"If you don't know anything, why would your friends bother sending you here to seduce me? And then be taken prisoner, no less?"

"You got me. Maybe they just wanted to play Cupid, set you up with a handsome eligible prince?" he joked.

And she began to laugh. It was a high-pitched, almost girlish sound. Face joined in with a dry chuckle.

"Does this mean you're not going to kill me after all?"

Along with the mirth, there was something much more dangerous in her green eyes. It was exactly what Face had noticed earlier: psychotic glee. _Not like Murdock kind of crazy, either. This girl is really nutso, in a Bette Davis gone wrong way. Maybe I can try to sell her to Disney as their next cartoon villain when we get back to L.A., if I live long enough._

Lady Malka was still giggling. "No, of course I'm going to kill you. I may not do it personally…I have so many things to consider besides killing you right now…but first you and I are going to have a little chat."

Face looked to the window. If he could just get her to leave, he might have a shot. If not, he stood a good chance of being tortured. The NVA had been bad enough. This woman acted like she were trying out for a remake of _Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?_

_ What did I _ever _see in her_? _Well, she has got a great…_

"The rack," she snapped, all traces of giggles suddenly gone, "happens to be Lord Orsandr's specialty. My way is less painful, but no less effective, I assure you." She tapped the top of the basket, which was wobbling ever so slightly. Something alive was in there.

It was Face's turn to be nervous. "I'm not ticklish, if that was going to be your next question." _Focus! Don't let her see any weakness._

She opened the lid of the basket and brought forth something small and furry. It looked harmless enough, small and furry with a mottled coat like a guinea pig's. "Do you know what this is, my prince?" she asked, stroking the animal gently.

"I have no idea."

"This is a caviia. She's so beautiful; won't you look at her?"

In that instant, Face knew he'd made his mistake. He glanced briefly at the little animal. Its eyes were a peculiar shade of stormy blue. He knew somehow that there was nothing more important in the world than the secrets held in those blue eyes. Like a pure unspoiled ocean lagoon, the eyes drew him in, seduced him, deeper and deeper. Somewhere through the haze he heard Malka's voice.

"That's a good boy…"

xxx

There were a thousand questions the A-Team wanted to ask the little old man who insisted he was Yarran. The only one they'd had a chance to ask thus far had been about food. The ex-wizard moved with a speed that belied his many years, dishing out porridge and fresh-baked black bread to his guests .

"Good food? Better be, it's my mam's old recipe, y'know," he said, pushing yet another bowl of porridge at B.A.

The quarters were cramped at best: Yarran's home was literally the hollowed-out remnants of a massive oak. In places, moisture dripped through the patchwork roof. Mice rushed to and fro on the floor. The whole place looked like a collision between a squirrel's nest, an old-fashioned drugstore and a gypsy's wagon. They'd already spent almost an hour waiting out the storm in its tight confines. Only Anise didn't seem uncomfortable; in fact, she made herself right at home on an overstuffed leather divan.

"Yarran," she said gently, "I was hoping we could ask your help. These men are brave knights from a land far away. I brought them here with the magic of your pomegranate seeds. Do you remember?"

A loud snort issued from where he was busy sprinkling herbs into a cauldron. "Those were past the expiration date, girl, and besides, they needed to be optimally planted in the spring! Don't tell me you actually used them?"

Hannibal chuckled. "Those seeds worked just fine. In fact, they worked so well," he slid into a sort of generic stage accent, "that we were spirited away from our kingdom and brought here. Inconceivable, isn't it?"

"That ain't the word I'd use," B.A. said, spooning down more of the porridge. "Just plain crazy is more like it…speakin' of which, where'd Murdock go off to?"

Yarran brightened at the mention of Murdock, displaying a row of yellowed teeth. "Oh! I sent him, along with that young chappie in the motley, out to feed Kenaz earlier." He stopped, then frowned as if suddenly alarmed. "Y' don't suppose they got lost out there? Or eaten?"

"_Kenaz_?" Anise's eyes were wide. "Yarran, you told me you'd sold him to the Andalasian traders last winter!"

"I'm an old man, my girl. My memory fails me sometimes."

Hannibal and B.A. watched the exchange with a blend of amusement and shock. Finally Hannibal decided to ask the obvious question. "Who, or what, is Kenaz?"

"Kenaz," said Anise, shooting Yarran a sideways glance, "is his 'pet.' He kept getting bigger and bigger, until it was impossible to keep him a secret anymore…"

"He ain't no invisible dog, I hope," B.A. interrupted, worried that Murdock might have yet another invisible friend with whom to give him a hard time.

"No, no, I'm terribly allergic to dogs!" Yarran shushed all of them with his ladle. "Kenaz is a wyvern. Maybe the last one in Occiasilva." He beamed with gap-toothed pride.

At that very moment, the makeshift door crashed inward, bringing Murdock, Plink, and a blast of drizzle and wind with it. Murdock was grinning, and Hannibal couldn't help but notice that there was a large chunk torn out of the tall man's cloak, along with what appeared to be singe marks. Plink, for his part, looked absolutely terrified.

"Colonel," he said breathlessly, like a game show host describing some fabulous prize, "I think we got some air support for our plan of attack. If I can spend some more time with that big fella, that is. He needs a refresher course on 'whoa,' for sure…"

Hannibal seized the opportunity immediately. "The reason we've come," he said to Yarran, "is because Anise here specifically asked for help in bringing down the slimeball regime that runs this country the way Castro runs Cuba. We got pulled from our fast-paced lives in the Western Wood all the way here, and we can't exactly get home until that happens. So, that's what we plan on doing." He leaned back in his chair.

"He's right," B.A. added. "You can sit up here wit' your magic beans and all, but sooner or later they're gonna come for you too. These suckas at Ironloch ain't never gonna be satisfied 'till the whole place is theirs, man."

Through the many furrows of his countenance and his stringy beard, there was a look of deep shame on the old wizard's face. He sighed. "I know, lad. I'm just an old man, and a barmy one at that. What can I possibly do, eh?"

"Hey, I've been crazy my whole life, and it hasn't slowed me down," Murdock said with a note of pride.

"You're nothin' but a nut who needs crackin'," B.A. said.

"What we're trying to say here is that we need all the hands we can get if this plan is going to work, yours included," Hannibal said to Yarran. "We've got an idea as to how to get inside that castle. In fact, we've already found out its weaknesses and we've got a man inside. The thing is, it involves everyone, yourself included. Anise and Plink have spent the last few days telling us about all your inventions, and what a great wizard you are."

The old man cocked one eyebrow. "You really said that about me, girl?" he asked Anise.

"Once a wizard, always a wizard," she agreed, embracing him tightly and smiling. "And you did always want to try that recipe for Hellene fire again, didn't you?"

"That I did. I was going to get to it, as soon as I taught Kenaz 'sit' and 'stay', you know…"

Hannibal was grinning broadly. He had hoped for something like this. "Right. Now that we're all on the same scroll of parchment, we might as well start going over this plan. If I'm right, the princess will have her big coronation ceremony in two nights. Plenty of time for us to cook up a little surprise gift."

B.A. groaned. "Aw, man, I hope we're not gonna use the Trojan Horse thing again. Last time we did that, them guerrillas blew up our ride!"

"No, Sergeant, this one's even better. This one involves more deception than anything."

Murdock rubbed his hands together, dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. "And a little air assault to go with it, Colonel?"

"How'd you guess?"

"What about Prince Templeton? Is he part of the plan, Sir Hannibal?" Anise asked.

"Of course. He's our man on the inside. Speaking of which, we're going to need to fill him in on everything…Plink? Think you could scrounge us up another one of those carrier birds?"

For the last minute or so, Yarran's gaze had been fixed on the young Jongleur. The old man's rheumy eyes lingered, as if trying to remember something of great importance. But it only lasted for a moment, and only Hannibal seemed to notice it. The momentary spell was broken.

"Oh. Yes, of course. I'll fetch one straightaway," Plink said.

"Do mind the wyvern," Murdock suggested in a plummy butler's voice.

After he had gone, Hannibal indulged his curiosity. "You know him from someplace?"

"Oh, he's known Plink all his life. The both of us," Anise answered. "Haven't you, Yarran? I know your memory's been failing you a bit these last few years, poor fellow…"

Yarran shuffled off then, muttering something underneath his breath. Though little of what he said made sense, Hannibal swore he caught the words "prince" and "prophecy."

"What's with him?" asked B.A.

"Oh, it's nothing," Anise quickly responded. "He's an old man, you know, and his mind isn't what it used to be. I've been begging him for years now to let me help him with the cleaning and laundry, things like that. He refuses. If nothing else, he's stubborn. But he's the best apothecary I've ever known."

Sensing there was much more of a story, Hannibal decided to let the matter drop for the moment. There was a plan to be worked out, and less than 48 hours to do it. He'd find out what he needed as he needed it. There'd be plenty of time to ask.

"Now, if we could just hear back from Face," he said, voicing the concern they all felt.

xxx

"Very good. Now, what is the capital of Assyria?"

"Ummmm…" Face heard his own voice. It sounded distant, dreamy, like the voice of a merman in the deep sea. "Tyre? I think?"

The caviia's eyes were all he cared about: not getting back to Los Angeles, nor Hannibal's plan, not even the flight attendant he'd met last week. All of that was irrelevant. He had to listen to Malka's voice and keep staring straight ahead. Didn't he?

Somewhere inside, an alarm bell was going off. _I can't say anything. It's like the VC, they just want me to talk. And I can't talk…but I have to, don't I?_

"What is your real business in Occiasilva? No lies, now."

_Focus. Think. Be strong._

That was not his own voice, but Hannibal's. It was clear in his mind. The Colonel had used that same tone when they'd resisted their interrogations in Hanoi all those years ago. Those guys had used bamboo in the most painful of places. This was nothing by comparison. This was…a guinea pig with big sparkling blue eyes.

Face grinned inwardly. _Hannibal, you've pulled my fat out of the fire yet again. I owe you one._

"I'm just a pawn in all this. It's my Lord Chamberlain you really want. He wants to take over this whole kingdom and put himself on the throne," Face said, being careful to make his voice sound entranced. "Honestly, I didn't even know until he betrayed me and threatened to kill me if I didn't go through with it."

The princess, glad at last that her questioning was getting somewhere, smiled. "I knew it…no plot to remove me from my throne would place use an empty-headed fool like you as anything more than a mere pawn."

_Empty-headed fool? Lady, I'll show you…_

"And my herald?" Face said. "He's actually a master assassin. He once killed a man using only an apricot. He'd probably eat your Lord Orsandr on a toasted rye bun."

That got the reaction he was hoping for. Malka's perfect lips pulled back in a snarl. "Where are they now? Answer me or I'll let you see the extent of Lord Orsandr's abilities to cause pain, o prince," she hissed.

He shrugged casually, trying to remember that he was still supposed to be hypnotized. "I don't know, my lady. They could be halfway to Gnarnia by now."

Lady Malka angrily stuffed the caviia back into her basket, ignoring the little creature's squeals of indignation. "We shall see. You are a lucky man in that I need you for my coronation ceremony on the morrow. If that weren't the case, I'd do away with you for your sheer cheekiness."

_Cheekiness? Mission accomplished, Templeton, you devil._

"Look, Your Highness, I'm sorry. I'm just a prince. You know how it is, they never let me in on the strategy sessions. They don't even let me go to the privy without a servant in tow," he said, milking the effect for all it was worth.

There was a definite flush in her alabaster cheeks now. "We shall see how talkative you choose to be after the coronation. I may have a little fun with you."

"I never knew princesses were into that sort of thing," he said, grinning.

She turned to leave, picking up the still-squealing caviia in its basket. "One more thing. I'd advise you not to try an escape. That would make your punishment even more dire."

"Kinky. Lovely doing business with you," Face called as she slammed the door behind her.

Now that he was alone again, the room seemed silent, and unbearably stuffy even though the fire had gone out. A soft breeze from the narrow window was the only ventilation. Face began moving closer to the welcome cool air when he heard the cooing noise. There was a bird, a bright blue specimen, perched on the window.

A tiny scrap of paper was tied to its leg. Hannibal had thought of everything.

Desperate for news from the outside, Face took the parchment and began to read. It was smudged in places and written in miniscule Morse code, but he was able to make it out:

_Face,_

_ Stay put. Working on plan. Play along and stay cool. 48 hrs. max, will stay in contact until coronation. No escape for now. Destroy this. Hannibal._

As he crumpled the tiny scrap and forced himself to swallow, he looked out the window to the courtyard and the village beyond its walls. So easy to escape, and yet he couldn't do it. After all that time he'd spent knotting together scraps to make the rope…

But there was something he could do. And the rope might yet come in handy.

Face went to the little table, picked up the feather quill, and started scribbling away in Morse code on a piece of parchment as the little bird looked on curiously.

xxx

Outside Yarran's tree house, Plink filled yet another bucket of water. His mind was running like a spooked horse, and it had nothing to do with the thirty-foot red wyvern eyeing him from the other side of a fireproof corral.

_There's something he's not telling me. Eccentric old man or not, that was the same look, I'm sure of it, that the princess gave me back there at Ironloch…_


End file.
